E. R. Punshon

“ Deede Dawson answered. “You see that packing-case?”
Dunn nodded.
“It's big enough,” he said.
“Would you like to know?” asked Deede Dawson slowly with his slow, perpetual smile. “Would you like to know what's in it—Charley Wright?”
And again Dunn was certain that a faint suspicion hung about those last two words, and that his life and death hung very evenly in the balance.
“Silver, you said,” he muttered. “Didn't you?”
“Ah, yes—yes—to be sure,” answered Deede Dawson. “Yes, so I did. Silver. I want the lid nailed down. There's a hammer and nails there. Get to work and look sharp.” ”

“ But he obeyed with a brisk promptitude of manner, like one who saw a prospect of escape opening before him, and as he went he saw that Ella had relapsed into her former indifference and was once more giving all her attention to bathing her wrists with eau-de-Cologne; and he saw, too, that Deede Dawson, following close behind, kept always his revolver ready.
“Perhaps he only wants to get me out of her way before he shoots,” he reflected. “Perhaps there is room in that packing-case for two. It will be strange to die. Shall I try to rush him? ”

“ But Deede Dawson was alert and wary, his pistol never left his hand, he kept so well on his guard he gave Dunn no opening to take him unawares, and Dunn did not wish to run too desperate a chance, since he was sure that sooner or later one giving fair chance of success would present itself. ”