The flush had faded from the face of the Wolf. He passed a hand up over his forehead with a weary gesture.
“I—don’t get it,” he said.
“No,” Fyles smiled. “It don’t matter. It’s the law. You both swore you killed Sinclair.” He shrugged his heavy shoulders.
“I think I get it now.”
The Wolf lit a fresh cigarette.
“You ain’t—holding her?”
The question came in a cloud of cigarette smoke.
“You can go to her and take her right home—just when you fancy.”
The Wolf stood up. His movement was so sudden as to be almost startling. It was like the spring of a young puma.
“I’ll go to her right away.”