The battery of presses in the basement awoke with a roar and newsboys scurried on to the street, their shrill cries of “Extra! Extra!” echoing between the lanes of buildings.

A copy boy came up from the press room with an armful of papers so fresh the ink was soft and smeary on the page. He handed one to the chief copyreader and another to Tim, then proceeded down the room leaving them at the various desks where they were eagerly scanned by reporters and copyreaders.

“You turned in a great story on the pursuit and death of McDowell,” said the copyreader.

“Thanks, Dan,” smiled Tim. “Coming from you, those words mean something.”

The managing editor stuck his head out of his office and, seeing Tim, beckoned to him. In one hand he held a copy of the extra.

“Fine work,” Carson told the flying reporter, “but I guess we have gotten in the habit of expecting good stories from you.”

“The answer to that is easy,” grinned Tim. “I like reporting and if you really like a thing I believe you can do it well.”

“Any flying assignments for you today?”

“Not so far.”

“I’m glad of that. After your gruelling flight of yesterday it will do you good to be out of the air for at least a day.”

Tim returned to his desk and sat down to the routine task of gleaning enough aviation news to make an interesting column. He always tried to work a day in advance on the column. It was well after mid-forenoon when he had completed the column and turned it in at the copydesk.

The city editor, Ed Campbell, a comparative newcomer on the staff, looked up from his assignment book.

“I’ve just received a wire that June O’Malley, new star of the Hollywood Follies, is coming through on the noon plane eastbound. Can you hop down to the field for an interview?”

“Right away,” promised Tim.

“Better take a cameraman.”

Tim stopped at the photo department and a photographer was assigned to accompany him.

Interviewing the latest sensation of the film capital was little more than routine and Tim found that the girl had little that she could or would say. The photographer got several snaps and they returned uptown where Tim managed, by hard work, to grind out half a column on the visit of June O’Malley to the airport.

“This is poor stuff and I’m making no apologies,” he said as he laid the sheet and a half of copy on the copydesk. “She didn’t have anything to say and I don’t believe she could have said it if she had.”

“They’re usually pretty poor copy,” nodded Dan, “but you should kick on a few assignments like this after your thrilling flight of yesterday.”

“I guess you’re right at that,” nodded Tim.

“I know what’s the matter,” said Dan. “You can’t get thoughts of ‘Mr. Seven’ out of your head.”

“You’d better have a sign painted and start in the mind reading business,” grinned Tim.

“It didn’t take a mind reader to figure that one out.” Dan dialed the automatic telephone. “Ransom House? This is the News. Has ‘Mr. Seven’ returned?”

“Not back yet,” said Dan as he hung up the receiver. “Let’s go out to lunch?”

Tim agreed and they had their noonday meal at a nearby restaurant.

“How far are the garages where ‘Mr. Seven’ might have rented a car?” asked Dan.

“Only three or four blocks. The porter at the Ransom House recommended both Kelleys and Brackens.”

They paid their checks and Tim turned toward the News, but Dan stopped him.

“Things are light today. We’ll take a few extra minutes and see what we can learn at the garages.”

Kelleys, the first rent-a-car agency visited, could supply no information but at Brackens they found their visit more fruitful.

The man in charge of the office consulted his records and informed them that on the Saturday night previous a “Mr. G. Seven” had rented one of their best cars, putting up a cash deposit of $100 since he intended to take the car outside the city limits.

Tim described “Mr. Seven” in detail.

“That’s the man,” said the garage employe firmly. “There’s no mistake about it; he’s got one of our cars. Is he in some kind of trouble?”

“Not as far as we know,” replied Tim. “Did you hear him say where he was going?”

“No, but I saw him looking at the state map on the wall over there. He was a little different from the average run of our customers and I kept an eye on him. He was looking at the roads leading into the Cedar river country.”

“But there aren’t any really good roads in that part of the state,” said Tim.

“That’s one reason why I noticed him looking at that section of the map. He made a detailed study of it, but never asked a question of me nor any of the boys who serviced the car for him.”

There was no further information to be gained at the garage and Tim and the chief copyreader returned to the News office.

“Looks like you’re on the trail of a real story,” commented Dan. “What’s going to be the next angle of attack?”

“The files. I’m going to start with this month and go back into them day by day. Somewhere I’m sure there will be a picture that will give me the identity of ‘Mr. Seven.’”

The afternoon passed in routine tasks but when the final edition rolled from the press Tim went over to the room which housed the paper’s library and ordered out the files for the last year. When they were available he carried the large, sturdily bound books to his desk where he placed them one on top of another. Ralph’s desk was not in use and he opened the last volume of the file and placed it there. Drawing up a chair he started the slow task of scrutinizing every picture which had appeared in the News for the last year.

The job was doubly difficult since one of the boasts of the News was that it carried an interesting picture on every page. Members of the staff left the office, one by one, until Tim alone remained, bent over the file and scanning the pages as he riffled through them.

Daylight faded and he snapped on the light over Ralph’s desk. Under the glow of the electric he continued his task until his shoulders ached from the continued strain of bending over. When he finally straightened up it was 7:30 o’clock and the telephone was buzzing.

“Atkinson News,” said Tim.

“Hello, Tim,” said Carl Hunter. “There’s a big amphibian coming in within the next half hour. Thought you might want a story. We don’t get many ships like that here.”

“Who’s on board?”

“Haven’t got anything on that yet. Will you be down?”

“Right away,” promised Tim. He closed the file, snapped off the light and hurried around to the garage in the rear where he signed an order for one of the News’ cars.

Hunter was waiting for him at the airport. In one hand he held one of the pink slips on which the radiograms were copied.

“Just got a report on the ownership of the amphib,” said the field manager. “It belongs to some fellow by the name of Sladek in New York City.”

“Is it Jack Sladek?” asked Tim.

“Can’t say. The message asking for refueling here is just signed Sladek. You know someone by that name?”

“No, but I’ve read a lot about a Jack Sladek of New York. He’s something of an international figure; been mixed up in a lot of different things, South American revolutions, Arctic explorations, underwater treasure hunts and rum running when that business was profitable. I’ve seen feature stories in eastern papers that credit Sladek with having made a fortune in deals that are just inside the law.”

“You’ll have a chance to see him first hand,” grinned Hunter, “for the ship was over Spencer half an hour ago. It should be here in another fifteen minutes.”

“That’s just time enough for me to get a lunch. I got interested in a little work at the office and forgot to go out and get supper.” Tim ordered a hot lunch and while he ate scanned the last edition of the Advance, the rival newspaper. He chuckled once or twice as he read the story of the pursuit of McDowell. The Advance had only the sketchiest of details and all of the rest of the story was obviously the product of the imagination of Mogridge, the reporter who had been assigned to the story. It could not compare with the brilliant accurately written story which Tim had woven for the News and which had been featured on the front page through all the editions that day. As Tim finished his lunch the drone of twin motors sounded high overhead. The amphibian was coming in. He stepped out of the lunchroom. The riding lights of the plane were visible as it circled to come down into the wind. Tim walked over and stood beside Hunter as the big ship dropped down and rolled to a stop on the ramp.

The amphibian was a beauty, trimmed in green and silver, and with a large cabin.

“Twin-engines, 575 horsepower each,” said Hunter. “That’s a high-speed ship.”

“Stream-lined down to get every ounce of speed out of it, too,” said Tim. “It cost plenty of shekels to build that flying boat.”

Inside the commodious cabin men were preparing to get out through the hatch at the rear. The first to appear was short, squat, with a nose that looked like a substantial fist had pushed it back against his face.

“Nice looking customer to meet on a dark night,” said Hunter.

Tim recognized the second man to appear as Sladek. He looked to be about 40 with a strong, hard face and eyes set so far back that they had a peculiar penetrating intentness and gave you the idea that Sladek was trying to ferret out your innermost secrets. The owner of the amphib was followed by a third man, who appeared to be a second-rate fighter, while the pilot was the last to emerge.

Hunter stepped forward and spoke to the former rum runner.

“We’ll have your ship refueled and ready to go in fifteen minutes.”

“Thanks. I’ve got to look at some maps. We’ll be here half an hour at least; perhaps longer.”

Tim remained in the background. He’d pick up as much as he could from the conversation of the visitors before stepping in and asking for a story. It was evident that the two with Sladek and the pilot were bodyguards, for they kept close to their employer and scanned everyone with suspicious eyes.

Sladek went into the administration building and scanned the large scale map of the state which hung on one wall. Tim, loitering behind, started involuntarily as he saw the section of the state which interested Sladek. It was the Cedar river country—the same section into which his mysterious “Mr. Seven” had gone.