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Leaning one hand on the packing-case that served as the coffin of his dead friend, Dunn swore a silent oath to exact full retribution, and henceforth to put that purpose on a level with the mission on which originally he had come.

Aloud, and in a grumbling tone he said:

"What's the matter with my name? It's a name like any other. What's wrong with it?"

"What should there be?" flashed Deede Dawson in reply.

"I don't know," Dunn answered. "You keep repeating it so, that's all."

"It's a very good name," Deede Dawson said. "An excellent name. But it's not suitable. Not here." He began to laugh again and then stopped abruptly.

"Do you know, I think you had better choose another?" he said.

"It's all one to me," declared Dunn. "If Charley Wright don't suit, how will Robert Dunn do? I knew a man of that name once."

"It's a better name than Charley Wright," said Deede Dawson. "We'll call you Robert Dunn--Charley Wright. Do you know why I can't have you call yourself Charley Wight?"

Dunn shook his head.

"Because I don't like it," said Deede Dawson. "Why, that's a name that would drive me mad," he muttered, half to himself.

Dunn did not speak, but he thought this was a strange thing for the other to say and showed that even he, cold and remorseless and without any natural feeling, as he had seemed to be, yet had about him still some touch of humanity.

And as he mused on this, which seemed to him so strange, though really it was not strange at all, his attentive ears caught the sound of a soft step without, beginning to descend the stairs.

Had that name, then, been more than she also could bear?

If so, she must know.

"I don't see why, I don't see what's wrong with it," he said aloud. "But Robert Dunn will suit me just as well."

"All a matter of taste," said Deede Dawson, his manner more composed and natural again.

"It's a funny thing now--suppose my name was Charley Wright, then there would be two Charley Wrights in this attic, eh? A coincidence, that would be?"

"I suppose so," answered Dunn. "I knew another man named Charley Wright once."

"Did you? Where's he?"

"Oh, he's dead," answered Dunn.

Deede Dawson could not repress the start he gave and for a moment Dunn thought that his suspicions were really roused. He came a little nearer, his pistol still ready in his hand.

"Dead, is he?" he said. "That's a pity. He's not here, then; but it would be funny wouldn't it, if there were two Charley Wrights in one room?"

"I don't know what you mean," Dunn answered. "I think there are lots of funnier things than that would be."

"That's where you're wrong," retorted Deede Dawson, and he laughed again, shrilly and dreadfully, a laughter that had in it anything but mirth.

"Can you carry that packing-case downstairs if I help you get it on your shoulder?" he asked abruptly.

"It's heavy, but I might," Dunn answered.

He supposed that now it was about to be hidden somewhere and he felt that he must know where, since that knowledge would mean everything and enable him to set the authorities to work at once immediately he could communicate with them.

The weight of the thing taxed even his great strength to the utmost, but he managed it somehow, and bending beneath his burden, he descended the stairs to the hall and then, following the orders Deede Dawson gave him from behind, out into the open air.

He was nearly exhausted when at last his task-master told him he could put it down as he stood still for a minute or two to recover his breath and strength.

The night was not very dark, for a young moon was shining in a clear sky, and it appeared to Dunn, as he felt his strength returning, that now at last he might find an opportunity of making an attack upon his captor with some chance of success.

Hitherto, in the house, in the bright glare of the gas lights, he had known that the first suspicious movement he made would have ensured his being instantly and remorselessly shot down, his mission unfulfilled.

But here in the open air, in the night that the moon illumined but faintly, it was different, and as he watched for