Dunn obeyed promptly.
There was that about this little fat, smiling man and his unsmiling eyes
which proclaimed very plainly that he was quite ready to put his threat
into execution.
For a moment or two they stood thus, each regarding the other very
intently. Dunn, his hands in the air, the steady barrel of the other's
pistol levelled at his heart, knew that never in all his adventurous
life had he been in such deadly peril as now, and the grotesque
thought came into his mind to wonder if there were room for two in that
packing-case in the attic.
Or perhaps no attempt would be made to hide his death since, after all,
it is always permissible to shoot an armed burglar.
The clock on the stairs began to strike the hour, and he wondered if he
would still be alive when the last stroke sounded.
He did not much think so for he thought he could read a very deadly
purpose in the other's cold grey eyes, nor did he suppose that a man
with such a secret as that of the attic upstairs to hide was likely to
stand on any scruple.
And he thought that if he still lived when the clock finished striking
he would take it for an omen of good hope.
The last stroke sounded and died away into the silence of the night.
The revolver was still levelled at his heart, the grim purpose in the
other's eyes had not changed, and yet Dunn drew a breath of deep relief
as though the worst of the danger was past.
Through his mind, that had been a little dulled by the sudden
consciousness of so extreme a peril, thought began again to race with
more than normal rapidity and clearness.
It occurred to him, with a sense of the irony of the position, that
when he entered this house it had been with the deliberate intention
of getting himself discovered by the inmates, believing that to show
himself to them in the character of a burglar might gain him their
confidence.
It had seemed to him that so he might come to be accepted as one of them
and perhaps learn in time the secret of their plans.
The danger that they might adopt the other course of handing him over to
the police had not seemed to him very great, for he had his reasons for
believing that there would be no great desire to draw the attention of
the authorities to Bittermeads for any reason whatever.
But the discovery he had made in the attic changed all that. It changed
his plans, for now he could go to the police immediately. And it changed
also his conception of how these people were likely to act.
Before, it had not entered his mind to suppose that he ran any special
risk of being shot at sight, but now he understood that the only thing
standing between him and instant death was the faint doubt in his
captor's mind as to how much he knew.
It seemed to him his only hope was to carry out his original plan and
try to pass himself off as the sort of person who might be likely to be
useful to the master of Bittermeads.
“Don't shoot, sir,” he said, in a kind of high whine. “I ain't done no
harm, and it's a fair cop--and me not a month out of Dartmoor Gaol. I
shall get a hot 'un for this, I know.”
The little fat man did not answer; his eyes were as deadly, the muzzle
of his pistol as steady as before.
Dunn wondered if it were from that pistol had issued the bullet that had
drilled so neat and round a hole in his friend's forehead. He supposed
so.
He said again
“Don't shoot, Mr. Deede Dawson, sir; I ain't done no harm.”
“Oh, you know my name, do you, you scoundrel?” Deede Dawson said, a
little surprised.
“Yes, sir,” Dunn answered. “We always find out as much as we can about a
crib before we get to work.”
“I see,” said Mr. Dawson. “Very praiseworthy. Attention to business and
all that. Pray, what did you find out about me?”
“Only as you was to be away tonight, sir,” answered Dunn. “And that
there didn't seem to be any other man in the house, and, of course,
how the house lay and the garden, and so. But I didn't know as you was
coming home so soon.”
“No, I don't suppose you did,” said Deede Dawson.
“I ain't done no harm,” Dunn urged, making his voice as whining and
pleading as he could. “I've only just been looking round the two top
floors--I ain't touched a thing. Give a cove a chance, sir.”
“You've been looking round, have you?” said Deede Dawson slowly. “Did
you find anything to interest you?”
“I've only been in the bedrooms and the attics,” answered Dunn, changing
not a muscle of his countenance and thinking boldness his safest course,
for he knew well the slightest sign or hint of knowledge that he gave
would mean his death. “I'd only just come downstairs when you copped me,
sir; I ain't touched a thing in one of these rooms down here.”
“Haven't you?” said Deede Dawson slowly, and his face was paler, his
eyes more deadly, the muzzle of his pistol yet more inflexibly steady
than before.
More clearly still did Dunn realize that the faintest breath of
suspicion stirring in the other's mind that he knew of what was hidden
in the attic would mean certain death and just such another neat little
hole bored through heart or brain as that he had seen showing in the
forehead of his dead friend.
“Haven't you, though?” Deede Dawson repeated. “The bedrooms--the
attics--that's all?”
“Yes, sir, that's all, take my oath that's all,” Dunn repeated
earnestly, as if he wished very much to impress on his captor that he
had searched bedrooms and attics thoroughly, but not these downstairs
rooms.
Deede Dawson was plainly puzzled, and for the first time a little doubt
seemed to show in his hard grey eyes.
Dunn perceived that a need was on him to know for certain whether his
dreadful secret had been discovered or not.
Until he had assured himself on that point Dunn felt comparatively safe,
but he still knew also that to allow the faintest suspicion to dawn in
Deede Dawson's mind would mean for him instant death.
He saw, too, watching very warily and ready to take advantage of any
momentary slip or forgetfulness, how steady was Deede Dawson's hand, how
firm and watchful his eyes.
With many men, with most men indeed, Dunn would have seized or made some
opportunity to dash in and attack, taking the chance of being shot
down first, since there are few indeed really skilled in the use of a
revolver, the most tricky if the most deadly of weapons.
But he realized he had small hope of taking unawares this fat little
smiling man with the unsmiling eyes and steady hand, and he was well
convinced that the first doubtful movement he made would bring a bullet
crashing through his brain.
His only hope was in delay and in diverting suspicion, and Deede
Dawson's voice was very soft and deadly as he said:
“So you've been looking in the bedrooms, have you? What did you find
there?”
“Nothing, sir, not a thing,” protested Dunn. “I didn't touch a thing,
I only wanted to look round before coming down here to see about the
silver.”
“And the attics?” asked Deede Dawson. “What did you find there?”
“There wasn't no one in them,” Dunn answered. “I only wanted to make
sure the young lady was telling the truth about there being no servants
in the house to sleep.”
“Did you look in all the attics, then?” asked Deede Dawson.
“Yes,” answered Dunn. “'There was one as was locked, but I tooked the
liberty of forcing it just to make sure. I ain't done no harm to speak
of.”
“You found one locked, eh?” said Deede Dawson, and his smile grew still
more pleasant and more friendly. “That must have surprised you a good
deal, didn't it?”
“I thought as perhaps there was some one waiting already to give the
alarm,” answered Dunn. “I didn't mind the old lady, but I couldn't risk
there being some one hiding there, so I had to look, but I ain't done no
damage to speak of, I could put it right for you myself in half-an-hour,
sir, if you'll let me.”
“Could you, indeed?” said Deede Dawson. “Well, and did you find any one
sleeping there?”
But for that hairy disguise upon his cheeks and chin, Dunn would almost
certainly have betrayed himself, so dreadful did the question seem to
him, so poignant the double meaning that it bore, so clear his memory of
his friend he had found there, sleeping indeed.
But there was nothing to show his inner agitation, as he said, shaking
his head.
“There wasn't no one there, any more than in the other attics, nothing
but an old packing-case.”
“And what?” said Deede Dawson, his voice so soft it was like a caress,
his smile so sweet it was a veritable benediction. “What was in that
packing-case?”
“Didn't look,” answered Dunn, and then, with a sudden change of manner,
as though all at once understanding what previously had puzzled him.
“Lum-me,” he cried, “is that where you keep the silver? Lor', and to
think I never even troubled to look.”
“You never looked?” repeated Deede Dawson.
Dunn shook his head with an air of baffled regret. “Never thought of
it,” he said. “I thought it was just lumber like in the other attics,
and I might have got clear away with it if I had known, as easy as not.”
His chagrin was so apparent, his whole manner so innocent, that Deede
Dawson began to believe he really did know nothing.
“Didn't you wonder why the door was locked?” he asked.
“Lor',” answered Dunn, “if you stopped to wonder about everything you
find rummy in a crib you're cracking, when would you ever get your
business done?”
“So you didn't look--in that packing-case?” Deede Dawson repeated.
“If I had,” answered Dunn ruefully, “I shouldn't be here, copped like
this. I should have shoved with the stuff and not waited for nothing
more. But I never had no luck.”
“I'm not so sure of that,” said Deede Dawson grimly, and as he spoke a
soft voice called down from upstairs.
“Is there any one there?” it said. “Oh, please, is any one there?”
“Is that you, Ella?” Deede Dawson called back. “Come down here.”
“I can't,” she answered. “I'm fastened to a chair.”
“I didn't hurt the young lady,” Dunn interposed quickly. “I only
tied her up as gentle as I could to a chair so as to stop her from
interfering.”
“Oh, that's it, is it?” said Deede Dawson, and seemed a little amused,
as though the thought of his stepdaughter's plight pleased him rather
than not. “Well, if she can't come down here, we'll go up there. Turn
round, my man, and go up the stairs and keep your hands over your head
all the time. I shan't hesitate to shoot if you don't, and I never
miss.”
Dunn was not inclined to value his life at a very high price as he
turned and went awkwardly up the stairs, still holding his hands above
his head.
But he meant to save it if he could, for many things depended on it,
among them due punishment to be exacted for the crime he had discovered
this night; and also, perhaps, for the humiliation he was now enduring.