“Going to be there for a while?” Drake asked.
“Probably not,” Mason said. “With you on the job, I don’t see why we should lose a lot of sleep.”
Back in his office, Mason paced the floor, puffing away at his cigarette, his thumbs hooked in the armholes of his vest, his chin lowered, eyes fixed moodily on the carpet. All of the playboy spontaneity which had characterized him throughout the evening with Della Street had vanished.
Della Street sat in the big leather chair, her heels pulled up, her arms clasping her knees and holding her skirts tightly against her legs. Her eyes followed Perry Mason with solicitous concern.
The telephone sounded startlingly loud against the midnight silence of the office building.
“It must be Paul Drake,” Della Street said.
“No, Paul Drake would come in here — unless something important has happened, and he doesn’t dare to leave his own telephone.”
He scooped up the receiver and said, “Hello.”
A feminine voice said, “Mr. Perry Mason, the attorney?”
“Yes speaking. Who is this talking?”