"Maybe he realized that he was slipping fast and thought a fine action might give him a hand-hold on life again. ’ Was there a careful note in her voice? Gerald gave no sign, keeping his own tone light. Hang it, there must be something about her that will give it away. Her target was a fifty-four year old man who lived with his mother, an obese neighborhood woman, a widow named Dawn Plote. It appeared from what he said that he had been captured when asleep,—that his liquor had been drugged,—otherwise, he would never have allowed himself to be taken alive. He trembled, not from any superstitious dread, but from an undefined sense of approaching danger.
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