and turned a tense little face towards Vic, but the instant her eyes moved the wolf-dog leaped away half the width of the room, and stood shivering, more devilish than ever. She stamped again.
“Bad, bad, bad Bart,” she said angrily. “Shall I make him come again?”
“Leave him be,” muttered Vic, closing his eyes. “Leave him be where he is. I don't want him.”
“Oh,” she said, “it's hard to make him do things, sometimes. But Daddy Dan can make him do anything.”
“Humph!” grunted Vic. He was remembering how, at the master's order, Bart had crouched at his feet in the wood, an unchained murderer hungrily waiting for an excuse to kill. There was something very odd about the people of this house; and it would be a long time before he rid himself of the impression of the cold, steady eyes which had flashed up to him a moment before out of that baby face.
“Joan!” called a voice from beyond, and the soft fiber of it made Vic certain that it belonged to the rider of the black stallion. The little girl ran a step towards the door, and then stopped and shrank back against the bed.
“If you're afraid your Dad'll find you here,” said Vic, “just you run along.”
She was nervously twisting her hands in her dress.
“Daddy Dan'll know,” she whispered without turn-
