“Right.” And they hung up.
Martin continued to walk. His throat was dry and he yawned frequently. As evening approached he grew more and more nervous. Several times he lost his bearings and with some difficulty he found Roberts’ street. In the elevator, which was warm and a little close, he tried to keep himself from shivering.
Roberts was dressed in black trousers and a white shirt, starched, but open at the collar. He greeted Martin extravagantly, then seeing his pallor, so unnatural, he brought out whisky and soda.
Martin held up his hand.
“No soda,” he said.
Roberts’ eloquent features absorbed at once the harshness of Martin’s despair. He understood. Nevertheless, propriety made him ask, “Straight? That’s dangerous.”
“Straight, please. And it’s not half so dangerous just now for me as being sober.”
Roberts shrugged his shoulders.
“You may take the bottle, if you care to, and lie down with it,” he answered petulantly.
Martin looked him straight in the eyes.