Deede Dawson could not repress the start he gave and for a moment Dunn thought that his suspicions were really roused. He came a little nearer, his pistol still ready in his hand.
“Dead, is he?” he said. “That's a pity. He's not here, then; but it would be funny wouldn't it, if there were two Charley Wrights in one room?”
“I don't know what you mean,” Dunn answered. “I think there are lots of funnier things than that would be.”
“That's where you're wrong,” retorted Deede Dawson, and he laughed again, shrilly and dreadfully, a laughter that had in it anything but mirth.
“Can you carry that packing-case downstairs if I help you get it on your shoulder?” he asked abruptly.
“It's heavy, but I might,” Dunn answered.
He supposed that now it was about to be hidden somewhere and he felt that he must know where, since that knowledge would mean everything and enable him to set the authorities to work at once immediately he could communicate with them.
The weight of the thing taxed even his great strength to the utmost, but he managed it somehow, and bending beneath his burden, he descended the stairs to the hall and then, following the orders Deede Dawson gave him from behind, out into the open air.
He was nearly exhausted when at last his task-master told him he could put it down as he stood still for a minute or two to recover his breath and strength.
The night was not very dark, for a young moon was shining in a clear sky, and it appeared to Dunn, as he felt his strength returning, that now at last he might find an opportunity of making an attack upon his captor with some chance of success.