“Don’t tell me,” she said. “Let me guess... They pitch horseshoes... no, they study astronomy... no. Ah, wait a minute, I’m getting hot, Chief. It’s botany! Or zoology! They go after the flora and fauna with magnifying glasses, and a sober, earnest attitude toward life. If his hand accidentally brashes hers in reaching for a gilded butterfly, he promptly apologizes, and she’s so broad-minded she thinks nothing more of it.”
“Almost,” he told her, “but not quite. The man’s a lieutenant in the army, who studies psychology in his spare time, and he and Virginia take these delightful strolls for the purpose of practicing revolver shooting.”
Della Street said, “You’d think any man who read the newspapers and realizes that, so far, the legislatures haven’t seen fit to put closed seasons on husbands, would know better than to teach a prospective wife how to shoot a revolver.”
“You don’t need to teach ‘em,” Mason said. “They never miss. Study the newspaper accounts for yourself.”
“Well,” she observed, “I see that it’s time for me to shed my air of persiflage. Something seems to tell me you are about to get serious, Chief. You didn’t bring this up just to give me a thrill over the love-life of a wallflower, did you?”
“No,” he said. “The man’s name is Ogilby — Lieutenant Ogilby. She met him at night school, where she’s been studying psychology. That’ll give you a line on him. I want you to find him.”
“Then what do I do?”
“Then,” he said, “you win his confidence.”
“Am I supposed to encourage him to make forward passes,” she asked, “or do I imbue him with the idea of gently but firmly taking Virginia Trent by the hand and...”
“Not that,” Mason said, “but you get him to take you out to the place where he and Virginia were doing their target shooting Saturday afternoon. You get him talking about revolvers... and then you ask him to pick up all of the empty shells he can find, and save them.”