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.
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