The Sergeant, who had been looking at Glass in utter incredulity, glanced quickly towards the door and got up. "What the - What is all this, Chief?" he demanded.
Glass turned his head, regarding Hannasyde sombrely. "Is the truth known, then, to you?" he asked. "If it be so, I am content, for my soul is weary of my life. I am as job; my days are swifter than a post: they flee away, they see no good."
"Good Lord, he's mad!" exclaimed the Sergeant.
Glass smiled contemptuously. "The foolishness of fools is folly. I am not mad. To me belongeth vengeance and recompense. I tell you, the wicked shall be turned into hell!"
"Yes, all right!" said the Sergeant, keeping a wary eye on him. "Don't let's have a song and dance about it!"
"That'll do, Hemingway," said Hannasyde. "You were wrong, Glass. You know that you were wrong."
"Though hand join in hand the wicked shall not be unpunished!"
"No. But it was not for you to punish."
Glass gave a sigh like a groan. "I know not. Yet the thoughts of the righteous are right. I was filled with the fury of the Lord."
The Sergeant grasped the edge of the desk for support. "Holy Moses, you're not going to tell me Ichabod did it?" he gasped.