"
"If you could do what you're told you certainly might be useful,"
said Deede Dawson slowly. "And I don't know that it would do me
any good to send you off to prison--you deserve it, of course.
Still--you talk sometimes like an educated man?"
"I had a bit of education," Dunn answered.
"I see," said Deede Dawson. "Well, I won't ask you any more
questions, you'd probably only lie. What's your name?"
With that sudden recklessness which was a part of his impulsive and
passionate nature, Dunn answered:
"Charley Wright."
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.
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