“I know!” I said. “I can prove it by the photographs I took. I remember some of them anyway. There was one of—”
THE DARK ROOM.
“Hold on!—hold on!” cried the sergeant, quick as lightning. “It’s the defendant’s turn now. Perhaps, sir, you will tell us what pictures are in the camera?”
“I am sorry to say that I cannot,” said the man, still polite. He was a smart fellow. “Indeed, the camera belongs to a friend of mine, and he lent it to me this morning for the day. He may have taken pictures with it. I took only one myself, and that was a view of the crowd in Cairo Street. If you will have the pictures developed, you will see that I am right.”
Then I was scared. I wish you could have seen the fellow—he was as cool as a cucumber. He was no common swindler, I’m sure.
“That’s a fair proposal,” said the sergeant, who was puzzled by this queer case. “Let us adjourn to a photographer. And don’t let either of these men get away,” he added, turning to a policeman.
So then we formed in procession, and went around the corner to a photographer’s and into his dark-room. The sergeant explained what we wanted.
But before the photographer began to develop the film, I spoke up and said: “Sergeant, this man probably took one picture just after he picked up the camera. It was all set, and all he had to do was to touch the button. Now, it isn’t likely he knows anything about the camera if he stole it. If he didn’t, his friend must have told him how to work it.”
“I think that’s a sound argument,” said the sergeant. “But suppose you write down all the pictures you remember taking.”