Each knew, too, that the slightest movement he made would set the other shooting, and each realized that in that close and narrow space any exchange of shots must almost of necessity mean the death of both, since both were cool and deadly marksmen, well accustomed to the use of the revolver.

Deede Dawson was the first to speak.

“Well, what next?” he said.  “If that inkpot of yours had hit me it would pretty well have knocked my brains out, and if I hadn’t hit my elbow against the corner of the packing-case I would have had you shot through with holes like a sieve by now.  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.”

“Where is Ella?”

Deede Dawson laughed again.

“That’s a thing I know and you don’t,” he said.  “Well, she’s safe away in London by this time.”

“That’s a lie, for her mother’s here still,” answered Rupert, even though his heart leapt merely to hear the words.

“Unbelieving Thomas,” smiled the other.  “Well, then, she is where she is, and that you can find out for yourself.  But I’ll make another suggestion.  We are both good shots, and if we start to fire we shall kill each other.  I am certain of killing you, but I shan’t escape myself.  Well, then, why not toss for it?  Equal chances for both, and certain safety for one.  Will you toss me, the one who loses to give up his pistol to the other?”

“It seems to me a good idea,” Deede Dawson argued.  “Here we are watching each other like cats, and knowing that the least movement of either will start the other off, and both of us pulling trigger as hard as we can.  My idea would mean a chance for one.  Well, let’s try another way; the best shot to win.  You don’t trust me, but I will you.”