“The front door by all means. We stroll out arm in arm. Man-and-wife-going-to-the-movies stuff.”
“It’s late for a movie, and,” she added, “my stomach says man-and-wife-should-go-to-restaurant.”
“Okay,” Mason said, “man and wife go to restaurant. Wait here while I turn out the lights in the dining room.”
“Wait here nothing!” she protested. “What do you think I am? I stick to you like a foxtail to a dog’s ear until we get out of this place.”
Mason slipped his arm around her waist. “I know how you feel, Della,” he said sympathetically.
“D-d-darn it,” she said, his sympathy moving her almost to the point of tears. “Why couldn’t we let Paul D-d-drake keep on f-ff-finding our bodies for us?”
“We just led with our chins, that’s all,” Mason said. “Walked right into it, and, having walked right into it, we’re going to keep our chins up and walk right out of it.”
Della Street swung around to stand close to him. Her body pressed against his, her hands on his shoulders. “Don’t get the idea my chin’s down. I just got an awful jolt, that’s all.”
Mason finished switching out the lights. His small flashlight illuminated the way to the door. “All ready?” he asked.
“All ready,” she told him.