It might be that the boy had taken one drink too many, or someone had given him knock-out drops. She went to a writing-desk and made some memoranda on a sheet of note-paper, and then remembered that she had no address as yet to which letters could be sent. And the woollen-draper departed. "I guess who you mean," rejoined Shotbolt. He's the only native I trust in these parts. Rumors had it he had been a looker in his youth, all long hair and chiseled muscles, but those days were long gone. They drove around town that night in his Buick convertible. " "Very well, Sir," replied Sheppard.
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