“And the worst of it is,” went on my father, “that we are almost certain who the thief is, but we haven’t a thing in the world to trace him by—not a vestige of a photograph or anything like it, which we could give to detectives to guide them in the hunt. The man’s gone, and the money with him.”
And my father sank despondently into a chair.
Meanwhile Lester and I stood by, listening silently, the still wet blue-print in my hand. After a minute I went and pressed the print out flat upon the table, on which my father’s arm was leaning. At any other time I would have proudly exhibited it to him, and would have been sure of his interest and appreciation, but I did not feel like intruding upon his present worriment.
As I laid the picture face upward upon the table, my father turned his head and looked at it indifferently. Suddenly he pushed me aside, and bent over the print so closely that his face almost touched it.
I recovered my balance with difficulty, and stared at him in frightened bewilderment. My father had never acted in this manner before, and I was almost afraid he had gone mad.
“Great Scott!” he exclaimed. “The very thing!”
Then, wheeling around, he grasped me by the shoulders, and wanted to know where I got that picture.
I was far too dazed by his strange actions to answer a word; so Lester interposed and told my father, in as few words as possible, of our morning expedition, and of the man whom we had photographed in the act of drinking.
“Bless the camera!” ejaculated my father, excitedly, “that’s Eli Parker, the thief! And the best likeness of him I ever saw, too!”
Then he questioned us closely as to the direction the man had taken when discovered, and ended by confiscating the print and the negative, and rushing out of the house to take the next train back to town. Lester and I talked about it all the afternoon, and felt ourselves quite heroes for having the temerity to stand before a real bank robber.