“Orris,” he began abruptly.
“Well?”
“When you came into the building Saturday night did you notice an envelope of pictures lying on the city desk?”
“No, I didn’t,” Orris answered shortly. “What of it?”
“I left some there—fire pictures. They disappeared before Clingston came on duty.”
Orris shot Flash a sharp, questioning glance.
“Say, just what are you trying to suggest?”
“Nothing.”
“Well, I trust not,” the head photographer muttered grimly. “I don’t know anything about your pictures and care less. My wife and I dropped in here after the theatre to telephone for a taxi. The trouble with you Evans, you’re always looking for an easy way out.”
An angry flush stained Flash’s face. With an effort, he kept from making a sharp retort. Orris would like nothing better than to draw him into a fight, and then request his dismissal.