Ichabod looked up at the furious, dark face almost in surprise.
“Yes, I blew it,” he corroborated absently.
“It would have burned longer.”
“Perhaps––I don’t know.”
Arnold moved back a step and the old smile, mocking, maddening, spread over his face; 220 tilting, perpendicular, the tips of the big moustaches.
“After all––” very slowly––“after all, then, you’re a coward.”
The tall man stood up; six-feet-two, long, bony, immovable: Ichabod himself again.
“You know that’s a lie.”
“You’ll meet me again,––another way, then?”
“No, never!”