Fyles found himself standing, too.
“We’re still men, Wolf?”
The younger thrust out an impulsive hand. Fyles took it and gripped it. And he released it as though it were the hand of a friend he was reluctant to lose.
“Who killed Sinclair?”
Fyles’ eyes were boring as he searched the smile whose fixity made it no less pleasant.
The smile deepened. It grew into a laugh. It was a queer hard laugh that had something fierce lying behind it. But no verbal reply accompanied it. The Wolf just looked squarely into the face before him and shook his head.
Then Fyles reached his fur coat and pulled it on. He buttoned it deliberately. And as his fingers moved amongst the fur, and his eyes were hidden in his search for the buttons, his voice came, speaking in the casual fashion of a man without great interest.
“What’s Pideau Estevan got on you, boy?” he asked.
And again came the Wolf’s hard laugh as he flung the remains of his cigarette into the cuspidor.