“But you were ready for him,” John insisted. “That’s foresight.”
“I was ready for anything interesting that might happen ten feet from where I stood. But think!” Jimmie grew excited again. “I may have the picture of the Silent Terror right here in my little candid camera. Won’t that be something.”
“It will indeed,” said John Nightingale, visibly impressed. “But here is Tom Howe, the ace detective.” His voice changed. “What do you know, Tom? Our young cub reporter has met the Silent Terror face to face, and lives to tell the story.”
“What!” said Tom Howe, who, save for his deep-set, piercing eyes, looked little the part of a detective.
“And he thinks he took his picture,” the reporter added.
“If he did,” Tom said soberly, “he has done a real service to his city. We’ve got to get that man and get him quick. At present, in some way quite unknown to us, he is putting people to sleep at a distance and robbing them on the streets. But criminals are never satisfied. In time he will double the dose, whatever it is, and his victims will never come to life. It is always that way with crime.”
“But how about the picture?” he demanded, turning eagerly to Jimmie.
“It—it’s not developed yet,” Jimmie stammered.
“Come on. We’re in luck,” the reporter exclaimed. “Scottie just went back to the darkroom. Took some pictures of the fight out at the park—to illustrate your father’s write-up, you know,” he explained to Jimmie. “He just went back to develop them. Come on, we’ll all go back to the dark room.”
“What’s all this?” put in a soft feminine voice.