Maskew gulped out 180, and Elzevir said 190, and then the pin gave a lurch, and I thought the Why Not?
was saved, though at the price of ruin.

No; the pin had not fallen, there was a film that held it by the point, one second, only one second.

Elzevir's breath, which was ready to outbid whatever Maskew said, caught in his throat with the catching pin, and Maskew sighed out 200, before the pin pattered on the bottom of the brass candlestick.
The clerk forgot his master's presence and shut his notebook with a bang, 'Congratulate you, sir,' says he, quite pert to Maskew; 'you are the landlord of the poorest pothouse in the Duchy at 200 a year.' The bailiff paid no heed to what his man did, but took his periwig off and wiped his head.

'Well, I'm hanged,' he said; and so the Why Not?
was lost.
Just as the last bid was given, Elzevir half-rose from his chair, and for a moment I expected to see him spring like a wild beast on Maskew; but he said nothing, and sat down again with the same stolid look on his face.

And, indeed, it was perhaps well that he thus thought better of it, for Maskew stuck his hand into his bosom as the other rose; and though he withdrew it again when Elzevir got back to his chair, yet the front of his waistcoat was a little bulged, and, looking sideways, I saw the silver-shod butt of a pistol nestling far down against his white shirt.