door quietly. Her father was bending over Sergeant Tom, and Pierre was
speaking: "No, no, Galbraith, it is all right. You are a fool. It could
not kill him."

"Kill him--kill him," she repeated gaspingly to herself.

"You see he was exhausted; he may sleep for hours yet. Yes, he is safe,
I think."

"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.