With a sudden start, for he had not known he was there, he found
himself standing on the threshold of that attic of death. It was
quite dark up here, and from behind Deede Dawson's voice told him
impatiently to enter.
He obeyed, wondering if ever again he would cross that threshold
alive, and Deede Dawson followed him into the dark attic so that
Dunn was appalled by the man's rashness, for how could he tell that
his victim would not take this opportunity to rise up from the
place where he had been thrust and take his revenge?
"What an idea," he thought to himself. "I must be going dotty, it's
the strain of expecting a bullet in my back all the time, I suppose.
I was never like this before."
Deede Dawson struck a match and put it to a gas-jet that lighted up
the whole room. Between him and Dunn lay the packing-case, and Dunn
was surprised to see that it was still there and that nothing had
changed or moved; and then again he said to himself that this was a
foolish thought only worthy of some excitable, hysterical girl.
"It's being too much for me," he thought resignedly. "I've heard
of people being driven mad by horror. I suppose that's what's
happening to me."
"You look--queer," Deede Dawson's voice interrupted the confused
medley of his thoughts. "Why do you look like that--Charley
Wright?"
Dunn looked moodily across the case in which the body of the
murdered man was hidden to where the murderer stood.
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