The Wolf’s downrightness was almost disconcerting. Fyles was puzzled. His experience taught him to look for evasion, shuffling, watchfulness. The Wolf displayed none of these. So the officer drove straight to his purpose.
“Exactly—Sinclair.”
“He’s on a trip,” the Wolf smiled. “You told Pideau yesterday. I was there. You’re relievin’ him.”
Fyles shook his head.
“He’s on no trip—we know about. He should be sitting right here. And he isn’t. He was keen for his job. He was trailing the liquor that pours across the border in this neighborhood. Well, he hasn’t been seen or heard of for more than two weeks. I wonder. It’s queer. And before I quit here I’ve got to know why. I’d be glad for any talk you——”
Fyles broke off. He turned an ear listening, and his manner carefully conveyed a start of surprise.
The Wolf’s eyes were on the door communicating with the outer room. He, too, was showing something like surprise. But his brows had drawn sharply, and there was clearly no pretence in him.
There was a sound in the outer room. It was unmistakable. It was the pad of moccasined feet. And the sound was approaching the door of the room in which they sat. Fyles was watching. He saw the lithe figure stir as though about to spring to its feet. And in a moment the man of authority anticipated him. He was on his feet and moving to the door.
Fyles flung the door wide. Annette stood framed in the doorway as once before in the night she had stood there.
It was an intense moment. The dusky beauty was pale under the low-pressed fur cap when the door opened. But it flushed darkly the instant the girl’s eyes took in the tall, standing figure of the Wolf near the stove. The Wolf was staring wide-eyed. The smile that would not leave his eyes was now without meaning. He was frankly amazed at the sight of Annette. And a queer look of trouble somehow marred his recent air of assurance.