“Well, glad to have met you,” Mr. Brown murmured. “Don’t let that trouble, whatever it is, get the best of you. Your father would have licked it!”
“Thank you, sir,” smiled Flash. “You’ve given me something to think about.”
And it was true, although not exactly in the way that Mr. Brown understood. The conversation had suggested to the young photographer a most startling possibility.
Old Herm’s last name was Ronne, and Ronne by no means was a common name. Flash recalled that Joe Wells had mentioned something about the watchman having had a son who was no longer living. Could it be that Dick Ronne, the person his father had caused to be discharged years before, was Old Herm’s son?
“First chance I get I’m going to ask Joe more about it,” he told himself.
So deeply was Flash absorbed in his thoughts that the bus went past his stop before he was aware of it. Jumping off at the next corner he walked hurriedly back to the Ledger building. He was five minutes late for work.
Fred Orris, hat pushed back on his head, was repairing the bellows of a camera as Flash entered the photography department. He made no direct comment upon the arson story or what had occurred in the darkroom the previous night. Instead he said sharply:
“You’re fifteen minutes late, Evans.”
“Five,” corrected Flash. “This clock is fast.”
“Get over to the courthouse and shoot some pictures of the Fulton murder trial. And bring them back, too. Remember, we want pictures, not adventure stories!”