"Maybe I'm pointing it at you under the table. Well, it's possible, isn't it?"
"It's possible."
"How'm I doing?"
"Pretty good—if I thought you had a gun. Anyway, I like it much better than the line."
"Good. If you don't get up and walk with me, quietly, walk right out of here with me—I'll use the gun. I'm desperate. Do you believe me?"
"No," Jeanne-Marie said promptly. For all his hard, capable good looks, Lucky seemed crestfallen. "But," Jeanne-Marie added slowly, "I'll go with you. As far as the street and no further."
Lucky squeezed her hand and signaled for the waiter. "I'll pay the check," he said.
"You're darned right you will," she said, and they both laughed.
Two hours in my new body, Jeanne-Marie thought, and I'm helping a murderer to elude the police. A murderer? Well, he says he's not. His word is the only word I have so I guess I can go through with it with something like a clean conscience. Clean conscience or not, she knew she'd act as Lucky's passport out to the street. Because Lucky, she could somehow sense, was the adventure that the new Jeanne-Marie, the peddler's Jeanne-Marie, had summoned.