Flash paid the bill, and took the prints over to a window. Running rapidly through them he came to the picture which Major Hartgrove had requested.
There was nothing so very startling about it. Major Hartgrove appeared as an unrecognizable, shadowy figure, with his face half turned away from the camera. But as Flash studied the scene carefully, he distinguished the faint outline of another form—a man slipping away into the darkness.
“I wonder if that might not have been the person who ran when I called to him!” he reflected. “It might be the same man who struck Major Hartgrove and tried to rob him.”
By this time Flash no longer doubted that the army man had been the object of an attack. What the mysterious assailant had been after he could not guess, unless the Major had carried valuable military plans or other documents upon his person. Certainly no ordinary thief had been responsible for the assault.
“I would think Povy might have had a hand in it,” he mused, “only Povy was killed in the wreck. So he’s out.”
To make certain no mistake had been made in the records, Flash decided to investigate further the following day. While very unlikely, there was still a chance that Albert Povy’s name had been listed by mistake.
“The Major won’t learn much from this picture,” he thought. “But it’s no good to me. I’ll take it around tomorrow just to keep him from breaking a blood vessel.”
Rapidly he glanced at the remaining prints. The pictures taken at the auto races were only moderately good, and without news value.
With a shrug, he pocketed the envelope and returned to the hotel where he dined and went to bed early.
He did not hear Doyle come in, but when he awoke in the morning, his roommate already was up and dressed. The technician stood by the window, looking over the prints which Flash carelessly had left lying on the dresser.