If she had flashed a glance at Lawson that would have answered at least one of my questions, but all she did was cock her head at me.
“I think,” she said, “that I ought to tell you you’ll probably be sorry for this, Major.”
“I already am. I don’t like any part of it. Are you coming?”
“Certainly. That carton and its contents belong to me.” She moved, crossing to Lawson and putting her hand on his arm. “Ken darling, this is nothing. Really. But I’m afraid — I don’t know how long it will take. I’ll phone you later. And perhaps you had better phone my sister in Washington — right away.”
“I could,” he growled, “wring him out and hang him up to dry.”
“I’m sure you could.” She patted his arm. “But you behave yourself. There’s more than one way to — cure a cold. Phone me later, Ken?”
“I will.”
“Be sure the door’s locked when you leave. Are we going, Major?”
Lawson didn’t move a muscle as I passed him, with the carton in the hand nearest him, so the other hand would be free in case he decided to show her how big and brave he was. But either she was the boss and he was obeying orders, or he wanted to be alone to think. I signified that she, being a lady, should go first, and she did so, stopping in the other room only to get her peck-measure cap from the table, and letting me close the door after us and push the button for the elevator as if she enjoyed having a male escort attend to such details.
On the street, I put the carton in the rear and her in the front, went around and slid in behind the wheel, beside her, and got going. No conversation. Apparently there wasn’t going to be any. But as I waited for a light at Twenty-Third Street, suddenly she spoke.