“What a shot that will make!” gasped Doyle. “Give me the camera, Flash!”
Rascomb had no interest in pictures at such a moment. Steering the boat to shallow water, he sprang out, ordering tersely: “Wet your clothing and be quick about it!”
The newsreel men both obeyed, but Doyle dragged the camera after him. Moving up shore a few yards he focused it upon Gersham Pass.
“Come back here! Don’t be a fool!” Rascomb shouted harshly. “We’ve no time for pictures now.”
Dousing his entire body in the river, he motioned for Flash to do likewise.
“Now into the boat!” he commanded. “If Doyle wants to stay here that’s his funeral, not ours!”
Flash hesitated. He had no intention of leaving Doyle behind. But unquestionably, it was no time for picture taking.
“Get in, I say!”
Rascomb’s hard tone brought Flash up sharply. In this moment of stress, the man’s voice had changed completely. Gone was every trace of the cultivated drawl which had made his speech distinctive.
Flash stared at Rascomb. With wet clothing clinging to his body, hair plastered against his forehead, the man looked much thinner. Even more startling, a tiny pink smear was visible on his left cheek. The edges of a jagged scar were faintly perceptible.