“A stiff upper lip,” he said, “and chin held high. We’re on our way.”
Mason flung the door open.
The fog-filled air stroked their faces with cool fingers. The street seemed deserted. Mason gave Della Street his arm. “The next few seconds are the bad ones,” he said. Together they walked down the stairs to the sidewalk. Halfway to the carline, Della Street said, “Lord, how I want to run. My feet seem to fly up at me. Do we take a car?”
“Yes. Remember, that radio patrol car is cruising around here, looking for two people who answer our description.”
“But if they stop us, they’ll recognize us.”
“That’s just the trouble. Seeing us together will make them realize how closely we check with the description given by the frightened party in the rubber-soled shoes.”
“Oh-oh,” Della Street said. “And even on the cable car we’ll be conspicuous. If there were only a phone handy so we could call a cab!”
Mason laughed. “In any event, you have to admit our lives don’t consist of a mere drab procession of uninteresting events.”
“No,” she admitted, chattering nervously to keep herself under control. “Life doesn’t bother us at all that way. Do we wait here for the car?”
Mason said, “We walk a couple of blocks, find some place — No, here comes a car now. We take it.”