The effect was instantaneous and apparent on both his auditors.
Ella gave a little cry and started so violently that she dropped the bottle of eau-de-Cologne she had in her hands.
Deede Dawson jumped to his feet with a fearful oath. His face went livid, his fat cheeks seemed suddenly to sag, of his perpetual smile every trace vanished.
He swung his revolver up, and Dunn saw the crooked forefinger quiver as though in the very act of pressing the trigger.
The pressure of a hair decided, indeed, whether the weapon was to fire or not, as in a high-pitched, stammering voice, Deede Dawson gasped:
“What—what do you mean? What do you mean by that?”
“I only told you my name,” Dunn answered. “What's wrong with it?”
Doubtful and afraid, Deede Dawson stood hesitant. His forehead had become very damp, and he wiped it with a nervous gesture.
“Is that your name—your real name?” he muttered.
“Never had another that I know of,” Dunn answered.