But already a policeman was approaching her on care-worn feet.
Blushing to the roots of her tonsils, Angie fled, she knew not where.
Hardly had she got there, however, when a sudden thought struck her like a falling safe. Wasn’t there something strangely familiar about that man—or was there? The way he had aimed his nose at her—the way he had sighed through his ears—what was it? Or wasn’t it? And if not, why not?
And then it all came over her and overcame her. . . . She stopped, looked, listened. But alas, two alases! He was gone. In acute despair she leaned sadly against a newspaper and began to weep—great, wonderful weeps.
He, who had seemed so vice versâ, was he not, indeed, by way of being The Face? She had, in fact, almost recognized it. Why why, now!
It was a close shave!
