tedly about her. Even in
quiet, staid old Overton she derived an active pleasure from scanning
the faces of the passersby. She tried to read their thoughts from their
expressions, and her habit of observation had on more than one occasion
proved of value to her.

"All right," called Arline, holding up the tickets. "Come on."

Grace turned her eyes toward Arline, then some unaccountable influence
caused her to turn her head and glance again in the direction of the
street. A roughly-dressed man had stopped on the sidewalk directly in
front of the theatre to stare at one of the gayly colored lithographs.
Grace stopped short, seized with a peculiar feeling of apprehension. Why
was the face of this man so familiar to her? Surely she had seen it
somewhere under decidedly unpleasant circumstances. Was it at Overton
she had seen him? No, it was further back than that.

During the first part of Hugo's famous novel, which had been filmed to
perfection, Grace was obsessed with the question: "Where have I seen
him?" The stranger's face haunted her. It was a low-browed, sullen face.
She could not keep her mind on the story that was being unfolded on the
screen. She watched the ill-fated Jean Valjean being led off to prison
for stealing a loaf of bread almost without seeing him. It was not until
the scene where, bruised in spirit and prison-warped, Jean steals the
good priest's candlesticks and makes off with them, that full
remembrance came to Grace. Now she knew why that face was strangely
familiar. The man she had seen was none other than "Larry, the
Locksmith." In her mind's eye Grace saw him sitting in the court room
with humped shoulders, his eyes bent fiercely upon her, as she related
what she had seen with her face pressed close to the window pane of the
haunted house. It had all happened during her senior year at high
school. To Grace it seemed but yesterday since she had given the
testimony that sent Henry Hammond's accomplice to prison for a term of
seven years in the state penitentiary. Seven years! It had been only
four years since that memorable occasion. Perhaps the man had been
released earlier for good behavior, or perhaps--Grace's heart beat a
trifle faster--he had escaped.

She paid but scant attention to the rest of the performance, and when
Jean had died in the arms of his devoted foster daughter, the lights had
appeared, and the crowd began filing out of the theatre, she scanned it
eagerly. There was no sign