Bob did not answer. The fellow’s tone and manner were offensive and, disliking him as he did and with his own temper set on a hair trigger just then, he thought it best to leave before the interview became a quarrel. He turned to go, but Covell caught him by the shoulder.
“No, you don’t!” he declared. “You don’t get out of it like that. I want to know why you are hanging around here in the middle of the night.”
Bob shook the grip from his shoulder.
“What is the matter with you, Covell?” he demanded, angrily. “Don’t speak to me like that.”
“I speak as I please. Now then, out with it! What are you doing here?”
“I told you. For the matter of that, what are you doing here, yourself?... Not that I care what you do, of course.”
Covell’s fists clenched. For an instant Bob thought he was going to strike him. He did not, however. Instead he laughed, mockingly.
“Oh, no, you don’t care, do you?” he sneered. “You don’t care a little bit. I could see that when we met that night at the Townsends’. Well, I haven’t met you there since, I’ll say that much.”
It was Bob who narrowed the space between them. His step brought them face to face.
“Covell,” he said, deliberately, “you are drunk, I suppose. That is the only excuse I can think of for you. Well, drunk or sober, you may go to the devil. Do you understand?”