McDowell was making a game fight, attempting to nurse the old craft over the rough country to the more level reaches ahead. Tim eased up on the throttle of the Jupiter, like the eagle giving its prey a moment’s respite before the last swoop.

The left wing of the old trainer was wobbling uncertainly now. The end was near and still they were over the rough country.

Fascinated, Tim and Prentiss watched the drama ahead of them. The biplane was weaving from side to side, the right upper wing now almost touching the lower one. With a rending of linen and wood, the wing tore loose and floated away in the backwash of the propeller. Then the lower right wing collapsed under the strain and the ship started to fall away rapidly.

McDowell, game to the last, methodically prepared to go over the side.

“He’d better hurry,” shouted Prentiss.

Tim glanced at the altimeter. They were still up 2,500 feet. There was plenty of time for McDowell to bail out and float down safely. The dope smuggler poised himself on the edge of the cockpit as the ship started to spin.

He waved at them in sheer bravado and then dived headlong from the plane. McDowell somersaulted once, then jerked the rip-cord. The chute pack unfolded and Tim and Prentiss saw the silken umbrella billow out. It caught the wind and unfolded. Then, before startled eyes, they saw the chute collapse and McDowell plummeted from their sight.

“Don’t look!” Tim shouted at Prentiss. He closed his own eyes, but even then the image danced in his mind. In the single second in which the chute had opened he had seen the long slit in the silk. In some unexplained manner McDowell had knifed his own chute instead of Tommy Larkin’s when he had plotted the death of Larkin at the Atkinson airport. It was a just vengeance but a merciless one.

Tim opened his eyes. Prentiss, white-faced and shaking, looked at him.

“Is there anything we can do?”

“Not a thing. We’ll find out where the county seat is and notify the sheriff. That’s about all that can be done.”

Tim checked their position. The county seat was about fifteen miles back on their return to Atkinson. The afternoon shadows were lengthening when they dropped down on the tiny airport on the outskirts of Walford. Inspector Prentiss climbed stiffly from the plane.

“I’ll find a phone,” he said. “You might as well wait here.”

Tim nodded and cut the motor. There were no attendants at the field and he was glad that there was plenty of fuel left in the Jupiter’s tanks to take them back to Atkinson.

Half an hour later the inspector returned.

“I located the sheriff and explained what had happened,” he said. “Everything will be taken care of. A party will leave at once to hunt for McDowell so we might as well go on back to Atkinson.”

Tim pulled the Jupiter into the air just as the sun dipped behind the horizon. The earth below was shrouded in the half-light of early evening as they roared steadily along at 2,500 feet and some of the strain which had gripped him during the afternoon slipped from his weary shoulders.

The mantle shrouding the earth deepened. Stars came out overhead and he switched on the wing lights. A crimson patch on the eastern horizon indicated where the moon was struggling upward. Clusters of lights passed beneath them and occasionally the streaking lights of a car could be seen. It was restful up there away from the earthy smells.

An hour slipped by and the lights of Atkinson glowed ahead. The airport was outlined in the red, green and white lights that marked its boundaries and indicated to an incoming pilot the runaways. Smoothly, easily, Tim dropped the Jupiter down and the swift biplane rolled up to the ramp near the administration building. Tim blinked in the glare of the bright electrics.

A familiar figure loomed out of the glare. It was Ralph, a bandage around his head, but able to move under his own power.

“Where’s McDowell?” asked Ralph. “Did he get away?”

Tim looked at Prentiss. The inspector spoke slowly.

“No, he didn’t get away,” he said as Tommy Larkin joined the group. “His ship started breaking up and he went over the side in his chute. The chute didn’t open.”

“Didn’t what?” asked Tommy incredulously.

“Someone had ripped it open with a knife.”

A grim smile flickered around Tommy’s lips.

“I guess I can explain that,” he said. “McDowell and I use exactly the same type of chutes and our packs look so much alike we can hardly tell them apart. He ripped one of the chutes, folded it back, and then picked it up himself. Fate certainly took a hand in the events around here this afternoon.”

“What happened to you?” Tim asked Ralph, who was leaning against the biplane.

“Plenty,” grinned Ralph. “I caught McDowell in the pilot’s room with a knife in his hand and the chute ripped. He was just ready to repack the umbrella. When he saw me he came at me with both hands going and I went down in a heap. He must have socked me with a wrench when I was down for I’ve got about a two inch gash on the right side of my head. The next thing I knew I heard planes buzzing around and woke up enough to come out and give the alarm.”

“I guess we can write ‘finis’ to this smuggling case,” said the inspector slowly. “I hadn’t expected it would end in quite this fashion.”

“What will the other members of the flying circus do?” asked Tim.

“Half of them have left the field already,” said Tommy. “They’re pretty much of a happy-go-lucky outfit. Some of them suspected that McDowell was smuggling but they wouldn’t turn in information on him. They’ll catch on with some other circus.”

“My head feels like someone was using a trip hammer on it,” said Ralph. “I’m going home and to bed.”

“Here comes a reporter from the Advance,” interjected Tim. “He’ll probably want to know all about the McDowell case,” the last words were directed at the inspector.

Mogridge, police reporter for the Advance, nodded to Tim and Ralph.

“I’d like to get all the facts on this story,” he said to Inspector Prentiss.

“Sorry,” smiled the inspector, “but since the News’ men played such an important part I’m afraid that the story will have to be exclusive with them.”

“Then you haven’t anything to say?”

“Not a word.”

It was obvious from the set of the inspector’s chin that no amount of argument or cajolery would change his mind. Mogridge shrugged and walked away.

“Thanks, Inspector,” said Tim.

“It was the least I could do,” replied the federal agent. “Without your assistance McDowell would undoubtedly have succeeded in his dash for the border.”

Ralph took a cab for home while Tim superintended the return of the Jupiter to its hangar. Then, with the inspector and Tommy Larkin, he climbed into the News’ car he had used that morning and started uptown.

“This is a long ways from the McDowell case,” said Tim, “but I’ve got a pet mystery all my own.” Briefly he told the inspector about “Mr. Seven.”

“I’ll be glad to have a look at him in the morning,” said Inspector Prentiss. “I’ve a faculty for remembering names and faces. Perhaps I can help you out.”

“Then I’ll meet you here after breakfast,” said Tim as the federal men left the car in front of the Ransom House.

“Right,” agreed the inspector. “Say about eight-thirty. Good night.”

“Good night,” replied Tim as he eased in the clutch and headed the car for the garage behind the News building.

It was getting late, but tomorrow he would be on the trail of “Mr. Seven.” In spite of the let-down after the strain of the afternoon, he went up to the editorial office, switched on the light over his desk, and wrote the story of McDowell.

It was a smashing action story, tense and alive to every bit of the great drama which had been played in the air. Page after page of copy rolled from Tim’s typewriter as he spun his thread of verbs and adjectives, creating a living, pulsating picture with his words. He sat back exhausted when he had finished the last line and banged out the last period. He was too tired to read it over and he tossed the handful of sheets on the copy desk, turned out the light, and somehow got to his room where he tumbled into bed.

When Tim awoke the next morning the sun was streaming through the windows. He glanced at his wrist watch. Eight o’clock. Time for him to be at the office. He had overslept.

Seizing the phone he called the copy desk. Dan Watkins answered.

“Did you get my story?” he asked.

“I’ll say we did. There’ll be an extra on the street before nine o’clock. Great yarn.”

“I overslept,” explained Tim, “and I’ve got an appointment to meet Inspector Prentiss at the Ransom House in half an hour. If the office can stagger through another hour without me I’ll have breakfast before I meet the inspector.”

“After the yarn you turned in last night I guess you can take the day off if you want it,” said Watkins.

Tim stopped at a restaurant for breakfast on his way to the hotel and reached the lobby of the Ransom House exactly at eight-thirty. Inspector Prentiss was equally prompt.

“Let’s have a look at your mysterious ‘Mr. Seven’ and see if we can’t strip a little of the mystery from him,” he suggested.

Tim went up to the desk.

“Is ‘Mr. Seven’ in?” he inquired.

“Sorry, he left last night,” replied the clerk. Tim’s hopes crashed.

“Didn’t he leave a forwarding address?”

“No, he checked out of his room but he left his baggage with the porter.”

“Then he’s coming back soon?”

“I presume so.”

Tim went to the check room to question the porter. The information gained there was a little more helpful.

“Yes sir, there’s ‘Mr. Seven’s’ bags over there,” said the porter. “He said he’d be gone several days and for me to keep a close watch on them. I guess they must be pretty important ’cause he gave me two dollars in advance for watching them.”

“Didn’t you hear him say where he was going?” pressed Tim.

“He didn’t say a thing except ask where there was a rent-a-car garage?”

“What did you tell him?”

“I gave him the name of several. Kelleys and Brackens.”

There was no further information to be gained from the porter and Tim rejoined the inspector, to whom he recounted the slight information he had gleaned.

“‘Mr. Seven’ appears to be an interesting character. I’d like to stay here and help you run him down, but I’ve another case in the southern part of the state that is needing immediate attention. Sorry I can’t be of any real help.”

Tim watched the inspector depart with a sinking heart. He had counted more than he cared to admit upon the ability of the federal officer to strip away the secrecy which had surrounded “Mr. Seven” since his arrival in Atkinson.

But tracing down “Mr. Seven” wasn’t a newspaper assignment and Tim turned his steps toward the office where Ralph eagerly awaited news of the visit to the Ransom House.

“What’s the good word?” he asked.

Tim shook his head glumly.

“There isn’t any. ‘Mr. Seven’ checked out last night but left his baggage at the hotel.”

“Then he’s coming back?”

“Undoubtedly, but that is another question, and what’s more, he may be doing something right now that is big news.”

“Why don’t you go to Carson and get a couple of days off. That would give you a real chance to run down this story.”

“The managing editor would probably laugh at my hunch. Nope, I’ll keep my eye on the story and try to grab on to ‘Mr. Seven’ when he comes back to the hotel.”

Ralph had an assignment in an outlying district of the city and he left the office at once while Tim sat down to write a column of aviation news.

The chief copyreader left his desk and joined Tim.

“I overheard what you were telling Ralph,” he said. “Too bad that ‘Mr. Seven’ got away before Inspector Prentiss could see him.”

“Just my luck,” muttered Tim.

“What are you going to do next?” asked Dan.

“Keep a close check at the hotel and also find out where ‘Mr. Seven’ rented a car. It’s from one of two places and I may be able to learn where he has gone.”