So far the score's
even. Let's chat a bit, and see if we can't come to some arrangement.
Look, I'll show I trust you."
As he spoke he laid down, much to Rupert's surprise, and to his
equal suspicion, his revolver on the top of a moth-eaten roll of
old carpet that leaned against the wall near where he was standing.
"You see, I trust you," he said once more.
"Take your pistol up again," answered Rupert grimly. "I do not
trust you."
"Ah, that's a pity." Deede Dawson smiled, making no effort to do as
the other said. "You see, we are both good shots, and if we start
blazing away at each other up here we shall both be leaking pretty
badly before long. That's a prospect that has no attraction for me;
I don't know if it has for you. But there are things I can tell you
that might be interesting, and things you can tell me I want to know.
Why not exchange a little information, and then separate calmly,
rather than indulge in pistol practice that can only mean the death
of us both? For if your first bullet goes though my brain I swear
my first will be in your heart."
"Likely enough," agreed Rupert, "but worth while perhaps."
"Oh, that's fanaticism," Deede Dawson answered. "Flattering perhaps
to me, but not quite reasonable, eh?"
"There's only one thing I want to know from you," Rupert said slowly.
"Then why not ask it, why not agree to the little arrangement I
suggest, eh? Eh, Rupert Dunsmore?"
"You know me, then?"
"Oh, long enough.
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