The bus presently stopped at a corner. A well-dressed man of middle age came into the car, settling himself in the vacant seat beside the young photographer. He opened his paper to read.
Turning his head slightly, Flash saw that the man had a copy of the Ledger, the last edition which news-boys were just starting to cry. Bold headlines told of McCormand’s arrest, and a picture had been spread over four columns.
Flash bent nearer. The picture was the one he had taken of McCormand and the two other men at Fenmore’s warehouse. Beneath it was a tiny caption, “by staff photographer, Jimmy Evans.”
“Well, I see they’ve captured the big-shot behind the arson ring,” remarked the passenger conversationally. “Turns out to be H. J. McCormand!”
Flash smiled and nodded.
“Interesting picture, too,” the man went on. “These newspaper photographers always seem to be on the wrong spot at the right time. But this picture takes the prize. I wonder how he ever got it?”
“If you ask me,” said Flash with a sheepish grin, “the fellow was a fool for luck. He must have been born with a silver horseshoe around his neck!”
THE END
