They drove around town that night in his Buick convertible. He was halfway across the ballroom, where the dancing had ceased for the musicians to take a well-earned rest, when Roding pounced on him. His hand went to his pocket and extracted a neat silver-mounted pistol. At last, he got into a lane, but had not proceeded far when he was again alarmed by the sound of a horse's tread. She would ignore him.
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