“Who are you?” he asked shortly.
“Annette Estevan, Pideau’s daughter. Who are you?”
The girl’s retort had a tone in it. Fyles understood. He also noted her exactness.
“Fyles. Sergeant Fyles from Calford. Why are you here—waiting?”
The final question rapped out.
There was a definite pause before Annette made reply. Her sullen eyes had lowered. There was movement in her body, too, under its heavy fur coat. When at last her answer came it was with a rush that intrigued the officer.
“Because I ken hand you word who shot up Ernie Sinclair. I ken show you wher’ his body’s lyin’—right now.”
Fyles lost nothing of the girl’s emotion. But her sullenness puzzled him. What did it indicate? It almost seemed like reluctance. And yet——
The policeman remembered his teamster.
“Just stop right here till I get back,” he said. “I got to pass my outfit right on to Buffalo Coulee. After that we can talk without folk around.”