He did not feel that he wanted to handle it, but he did.

It seemed heavy, a thing of subtle, latent energy, with singular fascination for him.

It brought up a dark flowing tide of memory.

Lane shut his eyes, and saw the tide flow by with its conflict and horror.
The feel of his gun, and the recall of what it had meant to him in terrible hours, drove away a wavering of will, and a still voice that tried to pierce his consciousness.

It fixed his sinister intention.