In the Wolf he saw less to puzzle him. There was enough to amaze, but not to puzzle. The calm of the man’s attitude told its own story. There was neither resentment, nor fear in it. But there was a queer sort of understanding patience.
He was gazing at Annette much as might a faithful dog who accepts chastisement at the hands of one it loves. He was obviously concerned. But it was not for himself. Only was it for her.
“Why were you there? You’d done your work. You’d betrayed them to your lover. Why were you watching?”
Fyles’ questions rapped sharply in the silence.
“Because he was my man.”
“You were scared for him—your man?”
Annette laughed harshly.
“I knew Pideau, an’—the Wolf.”
“You went to protect a policeman?”
“I went to watch an’ warn. But the Wolf was too quick.”