He made no answer. The car was idling rather slowly along Michigan Boulevard; half a block ahead glowed the green of a traffic light. Faster traffic flowed around them, passing them like water eddying about a slow floating branch.
Suddenly the car lurched forward. The amber flame of the warning light had flared out; they flashed across the intersection a split second before the metallic click of the red light, and a scant few feet before the converging lines of traffic from the side street swept in with protesting horns.
"Nick!" the girl gasped. "You'll rate yourself a traffic ticket! Why'd you cut the light like that?"
"To lose your guardian angel," he muttered in tones so low she barely understood his words.
Pat glanced back; the lights of a dozen cars showed beyond the barrier of the red signal.
"Do you mean one of those cars was following us? What on earth makes you think that, and why should it, anyway?"
The other made no answer; he swerved the car abruptly off the avenue, into one of the nondescript side streets. He drove swiftly to the corner, turned south again, and turned again on some street Pat failed to identify—South Superior or Grand, she thought. They were scarcely a block from the magnificence of Michigan Avenue and its skyscrapers, its brilliant lights, and its teeming night traffic, yet here they moved down a deserted dark thoroughfare, a street lined with ramshackle wooden houses intermingled with mean little shops.
"Nick!" Pat exclaimed. "Where are we going?"
The low voice sounded. "Dancing," he said.
He brought the car to the curb; in the silence as the motor died, the faint strains of a mechanical piano sounded. He opened the car door, stepped around to the sidewalk.