“HE’S taken him—the Wolf!”
Annette’s eyes were gloomy. Her cheeks seemed to have lost something of their roundness, something of their youthful bloom. They were pale, almost green in the yellow light of the smoky oil lamp. She stood in the doorway of the little office at the back of the store, her swelling bosom rising and falling stormily under her emotion. She was an all-unconscious figure of tragedy.
Pideau merely glanced in her direction. His quick eyes took in the picture, and, instantly, turned again to his stove. He was lounging in a hard chair with his feet on the stove rail. Not for an instant did he betray any feeling at the girl’s announcement. There was not even the lift of his lowering brows to suggest further inquiry. The Wolf might have been a stranger to him for the interest he displayed. Yet interest was there. His reply was a growl.
“Best come right in an’ shut that darn door,” he said. He stooped and set the stove damper wide open. “Did you shut the outer one, girl?”
Annette glanced over the littered room. Somehow it possessed even less attraction for her than ever with her father its sole occupant. Her eyes rested for a moment on the chair which the Wolf usually occupied. There was something dreadful in its emptiness. She came at once to the stove, closing the door behind her with a slam.
Pideau sat back in his chair again. His muscular body filled it to its uttermost. His look expressed the man, no more, no less. But his eyes were very active.
“It’s—Fyles?” he said. “Arrested him?”
Annette made no verbal response. There was just a nod.
“Why? What’s he got agin him? What’s he located?”
There was urgency in Pideau’s final question.