"Be careful, my boy," Mrs. Gallant cautioned him as he kissed her before leaving to get the car to go down town.
"Don't worry, mother; there's no danger now," he assured her.
As he passed the neighborhood picture theater a young girl, sixteen or seventeen years of age, emerged from the door. In the strong light of the lobby he saw her face plainly—a rather pretty face—and he remembered, indistinctly, of having met her, seen her somewhere before. He saw that she recognized him with a startled expression and unconsciously he slowed his steps. The girl hurried to his side and put her hand on his arm.
"Please don't tell, will you?" she begged.
"Tell? I don't understand," he said.
"Aren't you John Gallant?" she asked.
He noticed a look of fear in her eyes.
"Yes."
"I'm Alma Sprockett," she said, as if the mention of her name was sufficient explanation of her request for him to keep whatever she had in mind a secret.