"What did you say?" he asked vacantly, when the other paused.
"You look ill," Deede Dawson answered. "Anything wrong? Why have
you come back so soon? Have you failed?"
Rupert passed his hand before his eyes to clear away the mist that
hung there and that hampered his sight.
He perceived that Deede Dawson held his right hand in the pocket
of his coat, grasping something that bulged out curiously.
He divined that it was a pistol, and that Deede Dawson was ready
to shoot at any moment, but that he wished very greatly to know
first of all what had happened and why Rupert had returned so soon
and whether there was immediate necessity for flight or not.
That he was uneasy was certain, for his cold eyes showed a
hesitation and a doubt such as Rupert had never seen in them before.
"I'll tell you what's happened," Rupert heard himself saying
hoarsely. "If you'll tell me what's in there."
"A bargain, eh?" Deede Dawson said. "It's easy enough. You can
look for yourself if you unscrew the lid, but then, after all, why
should we take all that trouble?"
As he spoke his pistol showed in his hand, and at once the heavy
glass inkpot Rupert had held all this time flew straight and true,
and with tremendous force, at Deede Dawson's head.
He avoided it only by the extreme rapidity with which he dropped
behind the packing-case, and it flew over his head and crashed
against the centre panel of a big wardrobe that stood in one
corner of the room, splitting the panel it struck from top to
bottom.
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