She went toward him, scarcely knowing why, yet remotely conscious of something in his eyes that warned her that she must not refuse—a cold, sinister gleam that hinted of approaching trouble. She walked to a point near him and stood looking at him wonderingly. And now for the first time since the beginning of their acquaintance she became aware of a quiet indomitability in his character, the existence of which she had suspected all along without having actually sensed it. She saw now why men feared him. In his attitude, outwardly calm, but suggesting in some subtle way the imminence of deadly violence; in his eyes, steady and cold, but with something cruel and bitter and passionate slumbering deep in them; in the set of his head and the thrust of his chin, there was a threat—nay, more—a promise of volcanic action; of ruthless, destroying anger.
Taggart, apparently, saw nothing of these things. He looked again at Betty, his heavy face wreathed in an insolent half-smile. She saw the look and instantly flushed and stiffened. But it appeared that Calumet noticed nothing of her agitation or of Taggart's insulting glance. He stood a little to one side of Taggart, and he spoke slowly and distinctly:
"Taggart," he said; "meet my boss, Betty Clayton." He smiled grimly at the consternation in Betty's face, at the black rage in Dade's.
"I have already had the honor of meeting Mr. Taggart," said Betty coldly. "If that is what you—" She caught a glance from Calumet and subsided.
Taggart was deeply amused; he guffawed loudly.
"That's rich," he said. "Why, man, I've knowed her ever since she's been here. Me an' her's pretty well acquainted. In fact—"
"Well, now; that's odd," cut in Calumet dryly.
"What is?" questioned Taggart quickly, noting his tone.
"That I didn't remember," said Calumet.
"Remember what?" inquired Taggart.