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let ’em remember it. The only thing they understand is strength. They’d put a knife in your back as soon as look at you if they thought they could get away with it.”
    Dunnett smiled faintly. It was obvious that Mr. Verking was letting his memory and imagination run away with him. He was forgetting that things had changed even in the far away corners of the earth since young Mr. Reginald Verking, in a very new suit of white ducks, had stepped off the P. & O. mail-boat at Hong Kong some time back in the ’nineties.
    But Mr. Verking took a cynical view of progress. “You can laugh,” he said ominously. “But I’ve met these gentry. They’re nothing more that a lot of bloodthirsty animals, the whole crowd of ’em. Look at their Presidents—just one big assassin ruling over a lot of little ones.”
    â€œI’ll watch my step,” Dunnett told him.
    Mr. Verking nodded. “That’s the spirit,” he said. “You watch your step and you’ll be all right. Don’t let ’em come up behind you. They’re nothing but a lot of human sharks.” He crossed over and stood beside Dunnett. “They’ve got their funny little ways,” he added. “Did I ever show you that?” He broke off and began rolling up his sleeve. Dunnett looked in surprise at the arm which Mr. Verking was holding out before him: it was tattooed all over. A woman and a snake entwined in a mazy pattern of purple filigree.
    â€œIt’s … it’s very clever,” Dunnett remarked.
    â€œNot that,” Mr. Verking replied. “
That”
he pointed to a broad white weal that ran through the centre of the design, cutting off one of the lady’s legs from the rest of her body. “Do you know how I got that?”
    Dunnett shook his head.
    â€œDebt collecting,” Mr. Verking answered. “A Malay did it. Came out with his knife while I was still fumbling with the receipt book.”
    â€œWell, you survived it, at any rate,” Harold Dunnett reminded him.
    The remark seemed to rouse Mr. Verking. “Would you like to know how?” he asked sharply.
    Dunnett told him he would.
    â€œI’ll show you.” Mr. Verking walked over to his desk and unlocked the bottom drawer. There was something heavy inside wrapped in a wash-leather duster. He laid it on the writing-pad and undid it carefully. It was a large Colt revolver. “That’s how,” he said triumphantly. “That’s something that all of ’em understand.”
    â€œI … I see,” Dunnett repeated doubtfully.
    â€œCome to think of it, you’d better take it with you,” Mr. Verking went on. “You never know when you may want it.”
    â€œBut I shouldn’t know how to use it,” Harold Dunnett replied.
    â€œYou’d find out soon enough if you had to,” Mr. Verkingassured him. “It’s a sort of second sense in an emergency.” He picked it up and handed it to Harold by the butt.
    Dunnett stepped back a pace. “No really, thank you,” he said. “This isn’t my line at all.”
    Mr. Verking seemed hurt. “You needn’t turn up your nose at it,” he said. “They make ’em smaller nowadays, but they don’t make ’em any better. You could knock a horse over with this one.”
    Dunnet started to excuse himself, but Mr. Verking was clearly in no mood for listening to him. “You’re a fool if you don’t,” he said. “If more men went about armed there wouldn’t be so many murders.”
    â€œBut I haven’t got a licence,” Harold Dunnett reminded him.
    â€œSoon see about that,” Mr. Verking began, but stopped himself. The door up the corridor opened and there was the sound of someone’s coming. Mr. Verking took two quick paces forward and thrust the gun into Dunnett’s pocket. “Careful,” he said, “it’s