“Mr. Roberts!” he cried. “Mr. Roberts!” He ran to the telephone and tried to dial the operator, but his hands were shaking too much.
The adviser knew how he looked. He knew that his mouth was open. Perspiration was pouring from his face and hands. He fought off the darkness. He got his mouth closed. With consciousness came pain—a sharpness at the base of his neck that made him sick.
“Leave the phone,” he commanded sternly.
The janitor hesitated.
“Leave the phone,” Roberts repeated. He could move his arms now and was able to sit straighter in his chair.
The janitor picked up his broom, looked at the adviser again and started sweeping. Roberts was writing when the janitor left.
Rio got out of the elevator and was approaching Deane’s apartment when an elegantly dressed young man stepped from her door, closing it behind him. The sailor’s anger rose at the thought that this woman should betray his friend, as so it seemed. And when the two men neared each other in the hall they both hesitated as if by mutual agreement—Rio, still in his murderous rage, Drew in curiosity. They were barely moving as they started to pass each other. Rio scowled, then stopped a moment to stare at the other, who merely lifted his eyebrows and looked at the small bouquet in his own lapel, smiling as if he had a notion. Rio’s face became red. Thoroughly embarrassed at his mistake, he could not help but smile back. His healthy, undisciplined grin allayed any possible apprehension on the part of Drew who continued down the hall.
Rio found Deane alone. He thought he had never seen a woman so foreign to him—so sweetly unattainable that for one slow instant his deep native blood rebelled, reached out in mind, then caught itself. He held his cap when he sat down.
“I won’t be long, Mrs. Idara,” he said. “My name’s Rio.”
“Martin has mentioned you, Rio,” answered Deane. “I thought it was you.”