“Anything new on the arson case?” Flash inquired.
The reporter shook his head.
“That fellow Slater refuses to talk. And if the police have found any evidence against the so-called North Brandale Insurance Company they’re not giving it out. Too bad that picture you took last night was stolen. They say it might have cleared up the case.”
Flash nodded gloomily.
“It was a dandy picture. And one of the men was supposed to be the brains of the outfit. ‘H. J.’ they called him.”
“Police haven’t any idea who broke into the darkroom and cracked you?”
“No. They thought it must have been an inside job. They didn’t even take fingerprints because so many persons had smeared around the place.”
“Too bad,” the reporter remarked again, and devoted himself to his bowl of chile.
Flash had not forgotten his talk with old Mr. Brown. At the first opportunity upon his return to the office he sought Joe Wells and quietly questioned him about Old Herm.
“I’ve told you all I know,” the photographer insisted. “Why this sudden interest? You surely don’t think poor Old Herm sneaked in here last night and blackjacked you?”