“A drink will suffice,” he said.
Roberts flamed and quieted and the color came again.
Martin smiled a little maliciously as he watched him.
“What a story, or picture!—if you wept in all that brilliance!” he said calmly.
Roberts poured his own glass to the brim with whisky and drank it before he answered. His eyes were hot—completely without modulation.
“Drink yours!” he commanded, pouring another.
Martin took the glass to the window and threw it, whisky and all, into the street.
“May it kill!” he said, whiter-faced than ever.
“You talked to me once of melodrama,” said Roberts acidly. “I’ve never seen it so rampant, so unorthodox, so uncontrolled. I’ve had enough! Tell me—tell me—or by God!——”