Pideau’s eyes narrowed till the triumph in them was hidden.
“Does that go, too?” he asked. Then came a hoarse laugh. “If it does then you need to get after him right away. The hurt’s done. If you’d the eyes of a blind mule you’d have seen it in her, weeks back. It’s been in her dandy eyes. It’s been in everything about her. Maybe my manhood don’t leave me understandin’. But I’m her father, and I guess I know Annette. ’Tain’t me that don’t understand, boy. It’s you. You’re late by weeks. That’s why I haven’t jumped. I’m waitin’. I’m waitin’ because she’s playin’ her hand, and ain’t thro’ yet. Well, if your stuff goes, get right out after Sinclair an’ kill him. He’s robbed you. But it ain’t nothin’ to the way he’s robbed her.”
Pideau’s eyes were wide enough now. He had nothing now to conceal. There was neither taunt nor goad in his words. He was just sheer feeling. The father in him had risen above everything else. Bad as he was he still had the humanity of the father. In his crude fashion he loved Annette with all that was in him.
They stood looking at each other. Then, at last, the Wolf gestured. Pideau saw the clenching hands, so strong, so merciless in their movement. Then as the Wolf moved away without a word, he looked after him.
With the Wolf’s going Pideau’s manner underwent complete transformation. The father in him faded out giving place to all the evil that was more than nine-tenths of the man’s being. His eyes narrowed again. And the gleam in then was one of unholy triumph.
The Wolf’s purpose was plain to him. Pideau knew he had sent him off a potential killer. It was what he desired. It was the realization of his fondest hope. He meant the Wolf to stand on the same plane as himself. Then, at last, he would know that peace of mind which for ten years had been denied him.
The gray of the winter day was without any impression upon the man and the girl lingering at the gateway of the police inclosure. The cold was penetrating. But was not the winter cold at Buffalo Coulee always penetrating? Sinclair and Annette were young and vigorous, and completely absorbed in that which lay between them. So they gave heed to nothing so unimportant as weather conditions.
Annette was clad in a knee-length fur coat. It was of Persian Lamb, a recent birthday gift from the Wolf, who had been at pains to purchase it in one of the big cities of the East. Her round cap, low-pressed over her pretty ears, was of similar fur. Then her small feet were hidden within the ugly proportions of Arctic overshoes, which reached knee-high over warm stockings.
She was very attractive as she peered out from between the enveloping folds of her high storm collar. The dusk of her face was lost against the black fur. Her black eyes were alight and flashing between their long curling lashes. And her ripe, parted lips were intensely alluring.