Within half an hour, Ashton-Kirk, in a perfectly fitting, carefully pressed suit of gray, tan shoes and a light colored knock-about cap, led the way down to the car.  As they got in, he said: 

“We’d better go to Bernstine’s first.  It’s the nearest and on our way to the station.”

A twenty minute’s run through a baffling maze of vehicles brought them to the curb before a store with a very conspicuous modern front of plate glass and metal.  Inside they inquired for one of the Messrs. Bernstine; and upon one of the gentlemen presenting himself, Ashton-Kirk handed him his card.  Mr. Bernstine was stout, bald and affable.

“I have heard of you, sir,” said he, “and I am delighted to be of service!”

“Within the last few weeks,” said Ashton-Kirk, “you have had a sale of rifles and other things condemned by the military authorities of Bolivia.”

Mr. Bernstine wrinkled his smooth forehead in reflection.

“Bolivia?” said he.  “Now let me see.”  He pondered heavily for a few moments and then sighed.  “You see,” he explained, “we sell so many lots, from so many different places, that we can hardly keep the run of them.  But our books will show,” proudly; “everything we do is in our books.”

He looked down the long, table-crowded store and called loudly: 

“Sime!”

Sime instantly put in an appearance.  He was small, sandy-haired and freckled; he wore an alert expression and carried a marking pencil behind his ear.

“This is our shipping and receiving clerk,” said Mr. Bernstine.  “He’s up to everything around the place.”  Then he lowered his voice and jerked his fat thumb toward the newcomer secretly, addressing Pendleton:  “Clever!  Just full of it.”

Sime listened to Ashton-Kirk’s question attentively.

“Yes,” he said, in answer, “we had some of that stuff lately.  Sold well, too, considering the time of the year.”  He pulled open a drawer and took out a fat, canvas-covered book.  “Two gross rifles; one hundred gross cartridges.”  He closed the book, tossed it into the drawer and then slid the drawer shut.  “There were a few bayonets, too.  About half a dozen.”

With his round, fat countenance shining with admiration, Mr. Bernstine once more caught Pendleton’s eye.

“Just full of it,” he murmured, sotto voce.  “As full as he can be.”

“The bayonets,” said Ashton-Kirk, “are what we are after.  They were all sold, I suppose?”

“Yes,” replied Sime.  “I remember, when the last one went, saying to one of our men that we were lucky.  You see, bayonets don’t sell very well except to military companies; and they are not organizing every day.”

“Do you know who bought them?”

Sime took the marking pencil from behind his ear and proceeded to scratch his head with its point.  Mr. Bernstine watched him anxiously.  But when the shipping clerk pulled open the drawer once more, the employer’s face lighted up.