He washed the plate and as soon as he dared, opened the door and carried it out into the adjoining room.
Old Herm was still there, guarded by Fred Orris. Other newspapermen had gathered from the near-by offices, and had evidently been told the entire story. Flash fancied they gazed at him accusingly, as if to imply that he was unjust to falsely accuse an old man.
“Get anything?” asked Orris.
Flash offered the wet plate. “Here it is!”
The head photographer studied the evidence a moment in silence.
“This is proof enough for me,” he said. “Old Herm! I never would have believed it! But now that I think back, he came into the office the night your Elston fire pictures were streaked—”
“Let me see that plate,” the watchman demanded.
Orris turned toward him. With a quick swipe of his hand, Old Herm brushed the plate to the floor. It broke into a multitude of tiny pieces.
“Now where is your proof?” the watchman chuckled in triumph. “You ain’t a goin’ to hang this mess on me! No, sir! I got an alibi.”