As he spoke, the picture jerked round a little to the right, as though it had been pulled violently. And they were looking upon two men, obviously tramps. One was sitting with his head on his hands, the other, close by him, was pouring out whisky into a container.
“That’s Lew Brady,” whispered Elk fiercely, and at that moment the other man looked up, and Ella Bennett uttered a cry.
“It is Ray! Oh, Dick, it is Ray!”
There was no question of it. The light beard he wore melted into the shadows which the strong sunlight cast. They saw Brady offer him a drink, saw him toss it down and throw the cup back to the man; watched him as his arms stretched in a yawn; and then saw him curl up to sleep, lie back, and Lew Brady standing over him. The prostrate figure turned on to its face, and Lew, stooping, put something in his pocket. They caught the reflection of glass.
“The flask,” said Elk.
And then the figure standing in the centre of the picture spun round. There walked toward him a man. His face was invisible. Never once during that period did he turn his face to that eager audience.
They saw his arm go up quickly, saw the flash of the two shots, watched breathless, spellbound, horrified, the tragedy that followed.
The man stooped and placed the pistol by the side of the sleeping Ray, and then, as he turned, the screen went white.
“That’s the end of the picture,” said Mr. Silenski. “And what it means, heaven knows.”
“He’s innocent! Dick, he’s innocent!” the girl cried wildly. “Don’t you see, it was not he who fired?”