Roberts was studying him deliberately, with the peculiar analytical look Armstrong of old had known so well.
“You can’t imagine yet,” he queried, “not with the motive you fancied eliminated?”
“You wish to do me a kindness, a disinterested kindness. For what reason?”
“Cut out my motive, providing I have one, for the present. It’s immaterial.”
“That doesn’t help—I can’t conceive—” On a sudden came a flash of light that augmented to a blaze. “Can it concern Margery and me? Is that it?” 202
Roberts did not look up. “Yes,” he said.
“You know, then,” tensely. “How much?”
“Everything.” Roberts inspected the wall-paper opposite as though interested. “If you’ll permit me I’ll help you to avoid an action for divorce.” A pause. “One, moreover, I can’t help but feel somewhat justified.”
For long, very long, there was silence absolute. Then, adequate time having passed, apparently Roberts lost interest in the wall pattern.
“Sit down, please,” he suggested. “At last it seems we understand each other. Let’s talk things over a bit.”