She was Annette. She was utterly desirable. She was a deep feminine mystery that fired his every sense, and made him glad. She was his whole worship. All his being was centred on that sublime ultimate which he intended should be theirs.
For the rest? What did it matter that she preferred to anger him? Then her power to hurt was infinite. However she drove him, however deeply she hurled him into the abyss of soul-despair, it was all a part of the transcendent whole of his man’s adoration.
But Annette’s manner abruptly changed. It became eager. She forgot her desire to hurt.
“Say, boy,” she cried eagerly. “You must have run the old tank night an’ day.”
The Wolf nodded.
“Sure. I needed to get through quick.”
“Why?”
“Why?” The Wolf glanced round. His gaze encountered the frost-rimmed window. He could see through it a doubtful outline of the distant police quarters. Then he jerked it out. “To get right back to—here.”
Annette ignored the significance of his reply.
“How’re you goin’ to handle such a dope of juice as that?” she asked sharply. “You can’t make it in a single jump. An’ the trail’s red hot with those who’re yearning. Five hundred gallons? You’ll never get away with it. They’ll never let you pouch those dollars. How? Tell me.”