“But Jen, she suspects something, she—”
“Hush!” said Pretty Pierre. He saw her standing near. She had glided forward and stood with flashing eyes turned, now upon the one, and now upon the other. Finally they rested on Galbraith.
“Tell me what you have done to him; what you and Pretty Pierre have done to him. You have some secret. I will know.” She leaned forward, something of the tigress in the poise of her body. “I tell you, I will know.” Her voice was low, and vibrated with fierceness and determination. Her eyes glowed, and her nostrils trembled with disdain and indignation. As they drew back,—the old man sullenly, the gambler with a slight gesture of impatience,—she came a step nearer to them and waited, the cords of her shapely throat swelling with excitement. A moment so, and then she said in a tone that suggested menace, determination:
“You have poisoned him. Tell me the truth. Do you hear, father—the truth, or I will hate you. I will make you repent it till you die.”
“But—” Pierre began.
She interrupted him. “Do not speak, Pretty Pierre. You are a devil. You will lie. Father—!” She waited. “What difference does it make to you, Jen?” “What difference—what difference to me? That you should be a murderer?”
“But that is not so, that is a dream of yours, Ma’m’selle,” said Pierre.
She turned to her father again. “Father, will you tell the truth to me? I warn you it will be better for you both.”
The old man’s brow was sullen, and his lips were twitching nervously. “You care more for him than you do for your own flesh and blood, Jen. There’s nothing to get mad about like that. I’ll tell you when he’s gone. ... Let’s—let’s wake him,” he added, nervously.
He stooped down and lifted the sleeping man to a sitting posture. Pierre assisted him.