"What an idea," he thought to himself. "I must be going dotty, it's
the strain of expecting a bullet in my back all the time, I suppose.
I was never like this before."

Deede Dawson struck a match and put it to a gas-jet that lighted up
the whole room. Between him and Dunn lay the packing-case, and Dunn
was surprised to see that it was still there and that nothing had
changed or moved; and then again he said to himself that this was a
foolish thought only worthy of some excitable, hysterical girl.

"It's being too much for me," he thought resignedly. "I've heard
of people being driven mad by horror. I suppose that's what's
happening to me."

"You look--queer," Deede Dawson's voice interrupted the confused
medley of his thoughts. "Why do you look like that--Charley
Wright?"

Dunn looked moodily across the case in which the body of the
murdered man was hidden to where the murderer stood.

After a pause, and speaking with an effort, he said:

"You'd look queer if some one with a pistol was watching you all
the time the way you watch me."

"You do what I tell you and you'll be all right," Deede Dawson
answered. "You see that packing-case?"

Dunn nodded.