STANLEY FYLES noted the ease, the almost extravagant calm of the youth. And he could not but admire. The Wolf had sprawled himself on the bed as though his presence in the officer’s personal quarters in the barracks was the most natural thing in the world.
The man bore no trace of his recent ordeal, unless, perhaps, it was the avidity with which he smoked. In his fine face, in the frank smile of his dark eyes there was nothing to remind the officer of the wild beast he had seen looking out of the latter when the relentless counsel was driving Annette to her confession.
Fyles and the Wolf had left the court together. And it had been odd how the boy who had stood so recently under the shadow of the gallows was glad enough of the companionship of the man who had been instrumental in setting him in the prisoner’s dock.
So it was, however. Fyles had approached the Wolf in the friendliest spirit. And the man had responded at once. Fyles had invited him to the barracks before he left the city. And the Wolf had accepted the invitation without hesitation.
The underlying truth was really simple. Fyles still had his problem of the murder of Sinclair to solve. And the one person in the world with whom the Wolf wanted to talk was the man with his problem before him. So, once more, the Wolf found himself sitting on the smooth brown blankets of the sergeant’s bed.
But this time Fyles was no longer keeping guard over the door. His chair was faced about from his desk so that he could gaze into the face of his visitor as the light from the window fell upon it.
“You know I think you’re lucky, Wolf,” Fyles said, sucking his big pipe thoughtfully. He smiled. “You see, you don’t get the law, and the ways of folks who administer it, like I do. One of the crazy things in life to me is the queer fashion in which the outward seeming of human nature transforms the moment it finds itself in the position of having to hand out correction to the other fellow. The balance of justice is the notion—in theory. But in practice I’d hate to say how heavy the scale turns against a victim. It’s just the effect of authority on the general run of the fool human mind. Set a club in a boy’s hand, and he fancies using it all the time. If there’s no one else around I guess he’ll beat his own mother over the head with it. Pansarta’s quite a boy. You certainly were lucky. It wasn’t only the crazy way you mussed things for him between you that you got clear away. He was dead sure you didn’t kill Sinclair.”
“An’ I’m sick to death he’s right.”
There could be no mistaking the cold sincerity with which the Wolf spoke, as he sat gazing down at the burning cigarette in his fingers.
“Sure. I know.”