Deane’s anxiety increased.
“What situation, Roberts?” she asked.
“A situation so delicate that its discussion by phone is impossible. Won’t you do me the kindness to have dinner with me?” Roberts’ voice had taken on a strange, beseeching quality.
Thoroughly frightened by the implication of drama, Deane tried to remember that she had once been attracted by his intelligence, amused at his suavity. She accepted his invitation.
What could he want of her? She was glad that Martin had gone home. He would never let her meet Roberts if he knew. She recalled how frightfully upset Martin had been that morning.
While she was dressing she kept wondering what urgency had prompted the adviser to contact her so quickly after the tragedy. Surely no guilty man would do such a thing. Perhaps Martin and Rio were wrong. Perhaps Roberts wanted to help.... Did he know about that picture of Martin the police had found in Carol’s pocket? Thank God, Martin had had an alibi. Or—did alibis really count!... Poor Carol! Was she responsible for his death? It was true that she had introduced him into this ill-assorted group of men who, more experienced in the conflicting currents of human emotion, could anticipate and often avoid such danger. She remembered little phrases and gestures of Carol which in retrospect seemed touching and child-like. She remembered the day she had gone to lunch with him—his earnest, immature face as he reflected the thoughts and effusions of this man whom she was meeting. What blindness of hers that she had not foreseen an approximate outcome of this relationship! Deane’s eyes were full of tears. She felt the tremendous sorrow of the immaculate woman for the spikes and chains which bind humanity’s certified incompetents. Too, for herself, there were tears of indignation—resentment over being drawn into this formidable unity. She finished dressing and hurried uptown.
In the restaurant, Roberts leaned slightly forward, over the table, his hands together.
“Deane,” he said, “I didn’t ask you to meet me because of Carol’s tragedy. The child was drawn into a significantly dangerous vortex. But it is about this uncompromising whirlpool itself, which may engulf others whom I love, that I want to speak. There is something here—some sinister thing about us that is in deadly earnest. Do you sense it, Deane?”
“Yes, Roberts. Particularly now.”