“Then you know the game,” he said delightedly.
“I’ve done little camera work for years,” said I, “but my memory tells me what splendid results these are.”
“I thought we’d get along, Grey,” he answered. “Something seemed to tell me so. Come on, then, and I’ll show you where I love to be.” And, once more, he approached the door.
“Just a minute,” I interposed, as my eye caught sight of a five-by-seven print which fitted into the panel of a small locker door about breast-high. I never have been able to see how the photograph was taken. The subject was simple enough. It was Stroth himself, looking down, it seemed, into the very heart of a negative coming to life. It was as though the lens was situated in the developing tray itself, and that the dawning picture was looking out wonderingly at its creator. The setting was that of the dark room’s somberness—a bottle or two of dull reflection, a glass graduate. But greatest of all was the deep hue of the ruby lamp as it brought out the eager tension of his features.
I have dwelt on that crane of the neck and stoop of the shoulders; it was there—intensified, unmistakable. The look in the eyes I cannot describe clearer than to say that they lived—actually lived and glowed on that bit of lifeless paper.
“Oh, that thing,” said he carelessly. “Just yours truly at his hobby. But come, here we have the dark room itself.”
And he swung open the door.
Such equipment I have never seen equaled, and I could feel the old glow of the camera crank stealing over me again.
The door which he closed behind us excluded the light entirely, and, with the click of a wall switch, Stroth flooded the small apartment with a soft ruddiness which I saw was effected by a cunningly devised scheme of lighting.
A sort of bowl containing red electric bulbs depended from the ceiling, which itself was tinted to the hue, and the resultant ability to distinguish everything one needed in an absolutely safe light was a joy.[Pg 39]