A lean face looked back at him, the eyes obscured under the cap, a stern, resolute face, with a distinct threat about it.

He hardly recognized himself in the face in the glass.
He went to his suit case and brought out his favorite revolver.

It was a long and ponderous weapon to be hidden beneath his clothes, but to Ronicky Doone that gun was a friend well tried in many an adventure.
His fingers went deftly over it.

It literally fell to pieces at his touch, and he examined it cautiously and carefully in all its parts, looking to the cartridges before he assembled the weapon again.

For, if it became necessary to shoot this evening, it would be necessary to shoot to kill.
He then strolled down the street, passing the house opposite, with a close scrutiny.