“I just left Ella, poor girl,” he said, with a sigh. “She wouldn’t have a doctor. So she called me.”
Deane looked at him in surprise.
“Ella sick? Why, she seemed very well last night. Should I see her?”
“I shouldn’t bother,” said Drew, smiling faintly again. “I gave her a bromide and devotedly held her hand till she went to sleep. She’ll be all right in the morning.”
“But what happened?” insisted Deane.
Drew leaned forward and spoke more seriously.
“I’m glad both of you left when you did,” he said. “Roberts drank consistently—a thing he’s never done before, and left in a stagger, vowing he would never see Ella again. He spoke rather madly in his apartment, too. I stayed with him most of the night.” Drew sighed once more. “Of course, both of you are to blame.”
“It’s ridiculous!” said Deane, her dark eyes brilliant with anger. “Is Roberts out of his mind?”
Drew did not answer, but settling back in his chair, took from his pocket a gold cigarette case inlaid with an exquisite Mosaic design in various metals, opened it, and without offering its contents to the others, selected a rather bulky cigarette which he lit at once, before returning the case to his pocket. A singularly aromatic odor was first noticed by Martin. He looked at Drew in surprise. Then a wisp of smoke floated toward Deane who wrinkled her nose.