“What do you mean?” he asked, and then:
“Who are you?”
“Never mind who I am,” answered Dunn. “And I mean just what I say. You might as well commit suicide out of hand as come fooling about here alone at night.”
“You're crazy, you're talking rubbish!” Clive exclaimed.
“I'm neither crazy nor talking rubbish,” answered Dunn. “But if you persist in making such a row I shall take myself off and leave you to see the thing through by yourself and get yourself knocked on the head any way you like best.”
“Oh, I'm beginning to understand,” said Clive. “I suppose you're one of my poaching friends—are you? Look here, if you know who it was who attacked me the other night you can earn fifty pounds any time you like.”
“Your poaching friends, as you call them,” answered Dunn, “are most likely only anxious to keep out of your way. This has nothing to do with them.”
“Well, come nearer and let me see you,” Clive said. “You needn't be afraid. You can't expect me to take any notice of some one I can't see, talking rubbish in the dark.”
“I don't much care whether you take any notice or not,” answered Dunn. “You can go your own silly way if you like, it's nothing to me. I've warned you, and if you care to listen I'll make my warning a little clearer. And one thing I will tell you—one man already has left this house hidden in a packing-case with a bullet through his brain, and I will ask you a question: 'How did your father die?'”
“He was killed in a motor-car accident,” answered Clive hesitatingly, as though not certain whether to continue this strange and puzzling conversation or break it off.