“He’s killed Ernie Sinclair!”
Annette had asked Sergeant Fyles for protection against her father. She had given him the impression of real fear. Yet, within an hour of leaving the police quarters, where she had seen the steel handcuffs snapped upon the Wolf’s wrists, she was confronting her father with the announcement of his partner’s arrest, risking all the chances of whither her act might lead.
Annette was the daughter of Pideau. But her wit was supported, at least, by courage. Reflection had told her of her necessity. In years of association she had learned of her parent’s weaknesses as well as his brutalities. She felt it safest, and easiest, for her to show him that which had been done. She knew she had a deeper place in his life than he would have admitted. Besides, she was not really afraid of him and never had been. At least never since that moment, years ago, when she and the Wolf had defied him together.
“I know.”
There was almost a grin on the face looking up into Annette’s.
“You know?”
Pideau turned to the tin lamp with its dirty chimney.
“Yes. He showed it me.” Pideau nodded at the lamp. “Guess it was at our getaway with the liquor. I was waitin’ around at the bluff with the team. An’ he came along in a hurry. He took me right over to the cache.”
“He told you he’d—killed him?”
There was incredulity as well as a dash of awe in the girl’s manner.