Clive made another rush that a somewhat prickly bush very
effectually stopped.

"You--who are you--where--what--how dare you?" he gasped as he
picked himself up and tried to disentangle himself from the
prickles.

"Don't make such a row," said Dunn from a new direction. "Do you
want to raise the whole neighbourhood? Haven't you played the fool
enough? If you want to commit suicide, why can't you cut your
throat quietly and decently at home, instead of coming alone to the
garden at Bittermeads at night?"

There was a note of sombre and intense conviction in his voice that
penetrated even the excited mind of the raging Clive.

"What do you mean?" he asked, and then:

"Who are you?"

"Never mind who I am," answered Dunn. "And I mean just what I say.
You might as well commit suicide out of hand as come fooling about
here alone at night."

"You're crazy, you're talking rubbish!" Clive exclaimed.

"I'm neither crazy nor talking rubbish," answered Dunn. "But if
you persist in making such a row I shall take myself off and leave
you to see the thing through by yourself and get yourself knocked
on the head any way you like best."