But the discovery he had made in the attic changed all that. It
changed his plans, for now he could go to the police immediately.
And it changed also his conception of how these people were likely
to act.

Before, it had not entered his mind to suppose that he ran any
special risk of being shot at sight, but now he understood that the
only thing standing between him and instant death was the faint
doubt in his captor's mind as to how much he knew.

It seemed to him his only hope was to carry out his original plan
and try to pass himself off as the sort of person who might be
likely to be useful to the master of Bittermeads.

"Don't shoot, sir," he said, in a kind of high whine. "I ain't
done no harm, and it's a fair cop--and me not a month out of
Dartmoor Gaol. I shall get a hot 'un for this, I know."

The little fat man did not answer; his eyes were as deadly, the
muzzle of his pistol as steady as before.

Dunn wondered if it were from that pistol had issued the bullet that
had drilled so neat and round a hole in his friend's forehead. He
supposed so.

He said again

"Don't shoot, Mr. Deede Dawson, sir; I ain't done no harm."

"Oh, you know my name, do you, you scoundrel?" Deede Dawson said,