“You wer’ ther at the cache? What for?” Pideau’s challenge rapped out harshly.
Annette flung up her head.
“Ernie Sinclair meant to beat your play. Your’s an’ the Wolf’s!”
“You sent him?” The man’s retort spat fiercely.
“Well?”
Tense moments swept by. For Annette they were moments of crisis. She saw the storm and was waiting, watching. Pideau? Who could tell?
“Why?”
Pideau’s monosyllable was the girl’s cue.
“Because Ernie was my man. Mine. You understand? I bin his woman.”
Pideau drew a deep breath. He aimed a vicious kick at the stove damper, closing it with a clatter. Then he stared down at the red-hot patch in the stove’s iron top.