The German’s jaw dropped in inexpressible surprise.
“Sir?” he repeated.
“You made a decision for me, then. Thank you.”
“I do not you understand.”
“Tell Mr. Maurice I shall be pleased to see him.”
The round face disappeared from the door.
“Donnerwetter!” commented the little landlord in the safe seclusion of the stairway. Later, in relating the incident to Minna, he tapped his forehead, suggestively.
Ichabod climbed the stair alone. “To your old room,” Hans had said; and Ichabod knew the place well. He knocked on the panel, a voice answered: “Come,” and he opened the door. Arnold had thrown away his cigar and opened the window. The room was clearing rapidly.
Ichabod stepped inside and closed the door 204 carefully behind him. A few seconds he stood holding it, then swung it open quickly and glanced down the hallway. Answering, there was a sudden, scuttling sound, not unlike the escape of frightened rats, as Hans Becher precipitately disappeared. The tall man came back and for the second time slowly closed the door.
Asa Arnold had neither moved nor spoken since that first word,––“come”; and the self-invited visitor read the inaction correctly. No man, with the knowledge Ichabod possessed, could have misunderstood the challenge in that impassive face. No man, a year ago, would have accepted that challenge more quickly. Now––But God only knew whether or no he would forget,––now.