Lafond started violently, and stared at the portrait.
"Why, what's the matter?" cried Durand. "You look as though you'd seen a ghost!"
On the instant Lafond recovered his self-possession. He glanced with side-long evil look at the old man.
"Nothing," said he briefly.
It was evident that the naturalist was trying to trap him.
"Where have you seen her before?" asked the latter, returning to the portrait. "She is old-fashioned—must have had that painted fifteen or twenty years ago—and yet I've seen her recently."
Lafond stiffly descended from the vehicle, both hands thrust deep into the pockets of his canvas coat, and peered over the old man's shoulder.
"Here, Lafond," the latter was saying, "you know more about this than I do——" He meant that the half-breed possessed a wider circle of acquaintances. At his words Lafond drew an ivory-handled clasp-knife from the pocket of his canvas coat, opened it in two lightning motions and stabbed the old man deeply in the back. The latter stumbled forward, half turning as he fell. Lafond plunged his blade wickedly into Durand's throat, where it stuck, twisting out of the murderer's hands. The victim writhed twice, gasped, and died.
Black Mike stood over the body for a moment, panting. He stooped to recover the knife. On its ivory handle he read the words "William Knapp," on which he remembered, and left it where it was. Then he climbed into his wagon and insanely lashed his horses into a frantic run.
The little furry 'coon approached its master bristling. It dabbled its black paws, almost human, in the blood that stood on the threshold, and then, frothing at the muzzle, it scrambled into the house and up a high bookshelf, where it crouched, its eyes like coals of green fire.