The boy put down the tray.
“Will that be all, sir?”
Roberts looked up again, severely.
“Is that all? Most certainly. Do I ever digress from this routine?”
“No, sir,” said the boy and left.
Roberts mused, his lips spasmodically making little ticking sounds.
“Is that all? What else could he want? The scamp—he acted as if he knew something. A pretty lot he could know—or anybody, for that matter.” The adviser looked around the room, smiling shrewdly. There was a single scarlet geranium on his tray. He picked it up with a caress and held it briefly under his nose before he tore off the petals. Then he looked at his eggs.
“Cold, as usual,” he said bitterly. “And what’s this?—a spot?” He put his spoon into the eggs. “The nucleus, no doubt. Good heavens!—does fertilization confront me even in my breakfast?” He tried to control his anger and nibbled at a piece of bacon and toast. The hot, black coffee he drank greedily.
A short article at the bottom of the front page of his paper attracted his attention. He read through it swiftly. A murder in Greenwich Village. He smiled again, this time his right eye winking slightly.
“Definitely a bad neighborhood, Mrs. Twitchett,” he said amiably. “People who go down there must expect such things, my dear.” Then, with a start, he brought himself up. “You ass!” He spoke harshly to himself. “You giggling, impossible hermaphrodite! Hush!” But unable to repress his amusement he laughed aloud, pressing his finger to his lips secretively. After awhile he picked up the paper again. “What was the name? ... Carol?... Yes, Carol Stevens. A young chap,
so the papers say. But he’ll be a long time down there. It will bring maturity.... Unfortunately, he might be connected with Martin Devaud? That would be scandalous.” Before the smile reappeared on Roberts’ face he looked at the article once more. Certainly, it would not involve himself. Being merely decent to a homespun lad like that. There couldn’t be any connection there.... He spoke aloud again. “There isn’t any connection, you bloated bunch of rags! You confounded, grayish bunch of rags! This is the time of year to remain in one’s own department.”