Pideau’s eyes twinkled cunningly.
“That’s tough. I’d lose a swell partner.”
The girl was moving away. But she flashed around at him.
“Partner?” she cried. “That’s not a thing to what I’ve lost.”
She was gone. And Pideau looked after her as she passed to the cook stove. He stood up and remained standing for a moment. Then he called out.
“Guess I’m gettin’ back to the store, and the Wolf’ll be along t’ eat.”
He heaved his sturdy body into his furs and buried his black head in his greasy fur cap. And as he passed out there was no sign of his customary ill humor in his mean face.
Stanley Fyles filled his wood stove and sent the consuming flames roaring up the stovepipe by widening the opening of the damper. Then he stood up, moved over to a small table and lit a second oil lamp. Then he turned to the tall figure of the Wolf, who stood silently watching him and curiously observing the bare surroundings of the private room of the police quarters.
The Wolf’s face expressed only his curiosity. Nothing else. There was neither doubt, nor the faintest shadow of apprehension. His easy confidence was quite undisturbed as he watched each movement of the renowned and feared Stanley Fyles going about his chores.