“You see,” Denny went on, “I had just reached the bridge when that flash came. First I thought it might be a shot. But there was no sound. I made a dash for it. And there was this boy. I——”
“It was that man!” Jimmie, no longer able to control himself, broke in. “The one they call the Silent Terror.”
“The Silent Terror! No!” John Nightingale, the young reporter stared. “It couldn’t have been!”
“But it was! I just got a glimpse of him,” Jimmie insisted. “He said, ‘As you are!’ I felt something hit my chest, not very hard and I thought, ‘I’ve been hit. Perhaps I’m going to die.’ Then everything faded.”
“But the bright light?” said John.
“Oh, that—that was my idea.” Jimmie grew excited. “You know I’ve been experimenting in every sort of way with my candid camera.”
“Yes, I know. You——”
“Last thing I tried,” Jimmie broke in, “I hung the camera on my belt with a flat flash-light beside it. I put a flash bulb in the light. Then I connected up an electric push button that would open the camera and shoot off the flash all at the same time.”
“And I suppose,” John Nightingale drawled, “that you went right out and hunted up this Silent Terror and said, ‘Beg pardon. Let me take your picture.’”
“No! No! It wasn’t like that,” Jimmie laughed. “That was an accident; what father would call a ‘fortunate coincidence.’”