A harsh sound which was almost a laugh broke from the girl.
“I said I could show you to-morrow night.”
Fyles knew the half-breeds. No one knew them better. But hardened as he was to the ways of these people he experienced something of a shock. And feeling added harshness to his manner.
“The Wolf shot Sinclair,” he said. “You know that. You saw. Tell me; and don’t lie. Why did you write that letter? Why are you on the trail waiting for me with the thermometer twenty-five below zero? Sinclair? Why are you worried a policeman’s been shot up? You—a half-breed. You got to tell me right now.”
Annette flung out her mitted hands. This time there was no doubt about the meaning of her gesture. Ungoverned fury was driving her like a tornado.
“I tell you the Wolf’s no brother to me,” she cried passionately. “He’s shot up my man, Ernie Sinclair, an’ left his unborn kid without a father. Now d’you want to know. Now d’you guess I’m lyin’? I know. Oh, I know you p’lice. You’re mean as hell when you got the pull on folk. I’m a kid, a woman. I’m a hafbreed. A dirty hafbreed. You want to know all there is. You want to see it all. See it clear to the bone. Well, you got it. I’m to have a kid. It’s Sinclair’s kid. One of you p’lice. An’ I tell you the Wolf’s shot him because that’s so. Is the hafbreed dirt—lyin’?”
“We’ll know to-morrow night.”
Again came that sound that was almost a laugh.
“Yes. You’ll know to-morrow night.”
“What hour can you make it?”