“My motives are misconstrued,” he said slowly. “You will forgive my naive desire to lend Martin my support?”
Again Deane’s eyes dimmed and faded. Catching his own reflection, Roberts’ pallor grew even more death-like. And again he gripped the table, his knuckles white under the transparent skin. In the opalescent mirror of the woman’s eyes he saw his image—saw the pale movement within himself. Deane, her face cruel, drove her thoughts in swift waves, building and clarifying the image until the naked picture of the man and his disease rose clearly in her mind. There was an odor of decay. Roberts half rose from his chair, slipped back into it, and leaning sideways on the table stared fixedly at her.
Terrified, she arose. In Roberts’ face there was no blood, no expression. His eyes were set and the cords of his throat made ridges in his white neck. Deane put her hands over her eyes. She knew now. Her thoughts raced.... “He killed Carol. He wants to kill me!” ... Without excusing herself she left the restaurant and hurried to a cab.
Roberts, his hands limp on the tablecloth, stared before him. He felt Deane’s movement as she left, but he remained as he was.
“Take your eyes, too!” he said aloud. His voice rose higher. “I say, take your eyes!”
Other diners looked curiously at him, smiling and nodding their heads. A small, dark woman exchanged glances with her escort.
“He’s had plenty,” she said. “I watched him and the woman. They had an argument. The man’s tight.”
Her escort regarded Roberts earnestly.
“I don’t know. It looks as though he has the horrors.”
Roberts gazed steadily at the translucent eyes floating across the table.