“Hardly. I came in here a minute ago and found you out cold. Looks to me as if you’ve been slugged with a blackjack!”
Aided by the photographer, Flash struggled unsteadily to his feet.
“That’s a nasty wound on your forehead,” Wells said anxiously. “What happened?”
“Someone attacked me in the dark,” Flash returned briefly. “But the cut came from another fight.”
Staggering to the film drier, he took one glance and groaned.
“I knew it! They’re gone!”
“Pictures you were developing?”
Flash felt actually sick. He sagged into a chair, staring at the wall.
“Snap out of it, kid,” Joe advised kindly. “Tell me what it’s all about and maybe I can help you.”
Flash shook his head.