Fyles turned on the Wolf, looking for some reply. None was forthcoming. The man only had eyes for the girl who meant the whole of life to him.
Suddenly Fyles made up his mind. He must break through the youth’s defences by the only means to his hand. The brutality of it must not even be considered.
“Sinclair was the father of your child that’s going to be born?” he flung at Annette.
Annette almost leaped from her chair. She seemed about to spring at the throat of the man who had proclaimed her shame. Her eyes lit wildly, and her arms flung out. She stood. And then, as though drawn by a magnet, her gaze turned on the Wolf. Then it fell.
“Yes,” she admitted.
But Fyles had achieved his purpose. Annette’s reply meant nothing to him. He was watching the Wolf.
The change in the Wolf was almost demoniac. He was leaning forward in his seat, and his hands were gripping the chair arms as though they were striving to crush the hard wood under them. His widened eyes were almost insane, and the thick young veins stood out like ropes on his forehead.
Fyles went on relentlessly.
“And Sinclair was to marry you? He was to give your child its rightful father? And you were to betray your own father, and—the Wolf here? That was Sinclair’s price—for marriage?”
Annette seemed to collapse in her chair.