PIDEAU was hard on the heels of the Wolf. Instinct warned him that the youth must not be allowed to depart without further word.
The Wolf was standing in the open doorway when the other reached him. And together, for a moment, they stood peering out over the snowy waste in the direction of the police quarters.
They were still together—Annette and the fur-clad figure of the policeman. They were in just the same position on either side of the rough gate. There were other fur-clad figures moving over the snow in various directions. But the gray bitterness of the winter day offered small enough inducement to any but those answering the call of their day’s work.
Pideau was slightly behind the Wolf.
“It don’t need a heap of guessin’,” he said in a considered tone. “You reckon to do the thing her father ain’t. I kind o’ wonder the thing you reckon a father could do. You’re goin’ to stop it? An’ I ast you how? It ain’t fer me to know, eh? You’re just goin’ to wait around an’ stop it.”
Pideau was jeering. He was determined to provoke. He was looking for angry retort. But as none was forthcoming he went on.
“She’s to be your wife, eh?” he said, in a low, harsh tone. “Ther’s nothin’ out of hell to stop it? Maybe ther’s something deep down in hell that will. We know Sinclair. But ther’s no man can know the stuff that lies back of Annette’s pretty head. Will you marry Annette when Sinclair’s through with her?”
The Wolf turned. The half-breed’s goading had achieved its purpose. Pideau saw the fierce light in the eyes that sought his. He saw the sudden distention of the veins on his forehead and at his temples.
When the Wolf spoke, however, it was still in his cold, even tone.
“Cut that stuff right out, Pideau,” he said. “You’re her father, and the last man with the right to talk that way. You haven’t the manhood to get it right. If you had you’d have fixed Sinclair before this. I told you I’d marry Annette. Whatever happens that goes. But if hurts come to my little play-girl through him, I’ll—kill Sinclair.”