Fyles pondered the brief message, and he knew that here, at least, was the man. There was no attempt at disguise. His dying thought was for his daughter, Annette, and it was hopelessly mixed up with the almost childish impotence of a brutish threat.
“That’s Pideau!” The Wolf crushed the paper in his hand, and pitched it into the stove. “A ‘four-flush’!”
“He hated you good.”
Fyles began to button his fur coat. He had had enough of that place.
“Yes.”
The policeman pulled his fur cap down over his ears.
“But I’d say Annette meant something to him.”
“Yes.”
The Wolf’s monosyllable was devoid of interest.
“We best get along to the police shack,” Fyles suggested. “We can talk there.”