The federal narcotic agent sat down on the edge of Tim’s desk and smiled at the amazed expressions on the faces of the flying reporters.

“Do you mean that you are going to arrest McDowell on a charge of smuggling dope?” asked Tim.

“I’m going to do my best to take him in custody. He’s a slippery customer but I think we’ve got all the evidence we need this time.”

“What a sensation this will make,” whistled Ralph.

Tim was thoughtful. “It’s too bad the News is sponsoring the appearance of the High Flyers if their leader is to be arrested on a federal charge,” he said.

“I’m afraid it’s too late to make any changes now,” said Mr. Prentiss. “As a matter of fact, it will make a stronger story for, even though you are now aware of McDowell’s identity, you will go on and help a federal law enforcement agency to carry out its duty.”

“You’re right on that point,” agreed Tim. “I’m sure that the News will do all in its power to help you.”

“I’m wondering why you looked us up,” said Ralph. “You could just as well have waited until Sunday.”

“True enough,” nodded the narcotics agent, “but I know that both you and Murphy, as a result of your efforts toward the apprehension of the Sky Hawk and his gang, were made officers of the state police. I may need a little official help Sunday and I want men I can trust in an emergency.”

It was a fine compliment to the undaunted courage of the young newspaper men and it pleased them both. Prentiss had made warm friends and allies on whom he could count in any emergency.

“McDowell has been smuggling for a long time,” went on the federal agent. “We’ve been after him for two years but he’s a shrewd flyer and a shrewder smuggler. It wasn’t until I got one of my own men into his outfit that I commenced to get results.”

“You’ve actually got one of your agents flying with McDowell?” asked Ralph.

“He’s rated the next best flyer in the outfit, Tommy Larkin, by name.”

“I’ve heard of him,” said Tim, “but I never dreamed he was a federal agent.”

“Neither does McDowell or I’m very much afraid Tommy would be among the missing.”

“Meaning what?” asked Ralph.

“That it would be comparatively easy for McDowell to arrange a crack-up of Tommy’s plane somewhere on a long hop if he ever became suspicious.”

“That would be unthinkable,” said Tim.

“Not for McDowell. You might as well realize right now that he is ready to go to any length to save himself from arrest. According to information from Larkin, McDowell will receive a new shipment of drugs just before they take off from Charleston on their flight here. McDowell is to keep it in his ship until they reach Nemaha, their next stop after they finish their exhibition in Atkinson. That means McDowell will have the stuff on his ship for at least 24 hours. He flies a four passenger cabin plane most of the time but for one of the stunts he goes aloft in a fast two-seater. That’s when I’ll have a chance to seize the dope in his cabin ship and take him when he lands.”

“Sounds fine if nothing slips,” nodded Tim.

“There’ll be no slips this time,” promised the federal agent.

They discussed plans for the apprehension of McDowell at length and before he left the office, Prentiss promised to see the managing editor the next day.

“I’m counting on you two to be with me Sunday,” he said before leaving. “There might be a leak if I called in the local police or even some of the state troopers at the barracks here.”

When the narcotics officer had gone, Ralph wiped his brow and slumped down in the chair at his own desk.

“Talk about news,” he said. “Things never come singly in a newspaper office. First you bob in with the mysterious Mr. Seven, then we put on an air show and now we find the head of the air circus is wanted by Uncle Sam for peddling dope. What next?”

“Learn the identity of ‘Mr. Seven,’” grinned Tim.

“You can worry over that one,” snorted Ralph. “It’s almost midnight now. I’m going home and I expect I’ll have all kinds of nightmares.”

“If you suddenly discover the identity of ‘Mr. Seven’ I’ll be glad to answer the phone even if it is three in the morning,” said Tim.

“Just for that, I won’t phone you even if I do suddenly open some hidden recess in my brain and recall who he is.” Ralph threw the words over his shoulder as he left the editorial room.

Tim picked up the aviation magazine which contained the picture of the High Flyers and looked again at the printed likeness of Ace McDowell. The eyes were cruel, hard, merciless. Even on the inanimate page there was something disturbing about them. Next to McDowell was the picture of Tommy Larkin. He was about the age of Tim or Ralph, stocky and well-built.

Tim placed the magazine back in one of the drawers, snapped off the light, and left the office. As Ralph had observed, things never came singly, and Tim felt a weight of apprehension settling on his shoulders.

The next morning a board of strategy met in the office of the managing editor. Grouped around the table facing the heads of the News were the narcotics officer, Tim and Ralph.

“Of course we’ll help in every way possible,” the managing editor assured Prentiss. “You can rely upon Tim and Ralph to give you the utmost assistance and you’ll not find their courage wanting in the pinches.”

“That’s why I came to them,” smiled Prentiss. “I need two men on whom I can count.”

In the rush of plans and details which had to be worked out for the coming of the High Flyers, Tim was forced to relegate thoughts of “Mr. Seven” in the far depths of his mind. He managed to drop in at the Ransom House once a day to check on the presence of the mysterious stranger and each time learned that the object of his interest was still in Atkinson.

The High Flyers arrived late Saturday afternoon, wheeling down out of a cloudless sky. There were eight ships, three mechanics and two stunt men. Six of the planes were trim, modern crafts but two of them were old trainers that should have been on the junk heap long ago. Tim was surprised to see that type of craft.

By agreement, Prentiss had stayed away from the field for McDowell knew him by sight.

As soon as the ships had rolled up oh the ramp, Tim stepped out to greet McDowell. The head of the High Flyers was even shorter and swarthier than Tim had expected. His hand was cold and limp and Tim felt a chill run along his spine as the close-set eyes seemed to bore into him.

“Nice field,” commented McDowell. “Hope we have a good crowd.”

“We’ve been giving the show plenty of publicity,” said Tim.

“That’s good. I’m pulling a new stunt tomorrow afternoon. It’s a head-on collision at 2,000 feet between two planes. That’s why I’m wheeling those ancient trainers along. They’ll go up in smoke tomorrow.”

“Pretty risky sort of a stunt, isn’t it?” asked Ralph.

“Not as much so as it sounds. The pilots will chase each other for a while and then come on head first. Just before they crash both men will dive over the side in their chutes.”

“Who’s going to handle the ships?” asked Tim.

“I‘ll fly one of them. Tommy Larkin will handle the controls in the other. By the way, you must meet Larkin. He’s a fine flyer.”

At the mention of Larkin’s name, Tim felt a sickening premonition. It was the fear that McDowell suspected Larkin of being a federal agent. It would be so easy for him to crash into Larkin before the scheduled time.

McDowell called to a flyer who was squirming out of coveralls.

“Tommy,” he said, “come over and meet the flying reporters from the News. There isn’t enough going on here on the ground, so these fellows hop around in the clouds hunting stories.”

“Glad to know you,” grinned Tommy, as he shook hands with Tim and Ralph. “I’ve read a lot about you, first getting the Sky Hawk and then cleaning up the rustlers in the mountains west of here.”

“I was in on the pursuit of the Sky Hawk,” said Ralph, “but Tim ran down the rustlers single-handed. He’s getting to be quite a sleuth.”

Tim saw McDowell’s eyes narrow and he felt them boring into him. He changed the trend of the conversation at once.

“We brought several cars from the News down,” he said. “Let’s get out your baggage and we’ll be glad to take you uptown.”

By pre-arrangement, Ralph stepped over to help McDowell while Tim went with Tommy Larkin. They reached into the baggage compartment of Larkin’s monoplane and Tim whispered, “Prentiss is in town. He got your message and everything’s set for tomorrow afternoon.”

“Tell him the stuff is in McDowell’s ship in a special compartment under the floor. Be careful. I’ve a feeling that McDowell doesn’t trust me.”

“Then don’t risk your life by going up tomorrow in one of those old trainers and staging that crazy stunt.”

“I’ll keep a sharp lookout. McDowell will never be able to crash me before I jump. Better not say anything more or try to talk to me. It might arouse suspicion.”

Tim nodded and picked up the large suitcase. Together they walked across the ramp and joined Ralph and McDowell.

They left the flyers at the Ransom House and Tim caught a glimpse of “Mr. Seven” in the lobby. As soon as the flying circus was out of town he’d get on the trail of “Mr. Seven” again and see if he couldn’t learn his real identity. There was a story there if he could dig it out.

Sunday, the day of the big air show, dawned clear and windless, ideal for the stunt flying and just warm enough to insure the attendance of a large crowd. The first stunts were scheduled for ten o’clock and half an hour before Ace McDowell went aloft to do an outside loop there were more than a thousand cars parked in the roped off spaces around the field with more arriving every minute. Tim’s plans for handling the big crowd were working out smoothly and he felt some of the tension slipping from his shoulders.

At an early morning conference in the News office with Tommy Larkin and his chief, it had been decided to arrest McDowell when he floated down in his chute after the plane crash. In the meantime, Prentiss would seize the dope in the flyer’s plane and they would spring the net from which there would be no escape for McDowell. Tim and Ralph were content to be on the sidelines for they knew the danger in crossing a man like McDowell.

The other flyers in the circus were quiet, competent chaps, most of them under thirty and, as far as the narcotics agent could learn, had no connection with McDowell’s smuggling activities. The show started with McDowell’s stunt flight, which left the crowd gasping and speechless but not so paralyzed but what as a large number rushed for the ticket sellers and bought rides in the other planes. The next stunt program was at one o’clock with Tommy Larkin going aloft with one of the wing walkers, who capered all over the ship in a series of sensational stunts.

By early afternoon the crowd had increased to such an extent that the special police estimated more than 15,000 were watching the air show; and the passenger planes were running to capacity on every flight.

Prentiss, who had arrived at the field, was remaining out of sight in Carl Hunter’s office and once, when McDowell entered, was forced to make a hasty retreat into the washroom.

The loudspeakers were blaring with the announcement of the next stunt flight, the crash of the two planes in mid-air. Tim heard the words vaguely.

“The greatest air thriller ever performed,” the announcer was informing the crowd. “Two costly airplanes, speeding at more than 100 miles an hour, will positively crash head-on at an altitude of 2,000 feet. It’s daring, death-defying, breath-taking in its thrills. You’ll be glued to your seats when you see these ships hurl towards each other piloted by Ace McDowell and Tommy Larkin, two of the foremost flyers in the nation. They’ll go aloft in fifteen minutes. In the meantime, there’s time for one more ride in the passenger planes. Let’s go, folks.”

The old trainers had been kept in the hangars where a field crew had given them a hasty coat of paint that morning. They glistened bravely in their new dress and the motors, which were turning over slowly, sounded sweet.

Tim inspected the ship that Tommy was to fly. If it held together long enough to get to 2,000 feet Tommy would be lucky but with a chute on, he’d be able to get out if anything happened before they straightened out for the crash.

McDowell’s ship was in better condition. It was well rigged and Tim, squinting under the hood, was surprised to see a big Barko 16-cylinder motor turning the prop over. The old plane’s lines were good. It was still plenty fast enough to give the average modern ship a good race. Too bad to sacrifice a sturdy old veteran like that just to appease the thrill-seekers.

Tim looked around for Ralph, who had gone over to the pilot’s room in the administration building. His companion was nowhere in sight but McDowell and Tommy, their chute packs banging awkwardly against their legs, were making their way toward the hangar. McDowell’s own monoplane had been rolled inside.

McDowell was giving Tommy final instructions as they entered the hangar.

“We’ll take our time getting up to 2,000,” he said. “Then we’ll circle around and make several false rushes at each other. After three or four times I’ll waggle my wings and the next time we’ll let them go. We’ll be west of the field where the ships won’t do any damage when they crash. Stick with them as long as you can and then go overboard. Got that all straight?”

Tommy, a little grim, nodded.

“I’ll handle my end of it,” he said, climbing into the cockpit of the ancient trainer.

McDowell, eyes narrowed to slits as hard as steel, looked at the crowd.

“They’re going to get a real thrill,” he said savagely, smacking his clenched hands together.

Tim looked at him curiously. McDowell outwardly wasn’t nervous yet he appeared to be laboring under a great strain. Could he suspect Tommy’s real identity? The question burned itself into Tim’s mind. If McDowell was suspicious he might fake the crash and after Tommy went over the side, roar away in the trainer. That might explain why the old ship had such a powerful motor.

Tim stepped over to Tommy’s ship and climbed up so he could yell into Tommy’s ear.

“I don’t like the way McDowell looks,” he said. “Be careful.”

Tommy nodded.

“I’m not taking any chances this afternoon. The first thing that looks funny will find me going over the side in the chute.”

The loud speakers were blaring. The field was being cleared and the tension in the crowd increased.

“In the Number one plane,” boomed the announcer, “is Ace McDowell. In the Number two ship is Tommy Larkin. Here they come.”

The flyers gunned their motors and the old ships, gleaming under their coat of hastily applied paint, rolled out on the ramp.

A mighty roar went up from the crowd. The field was finally clear of the passenger carrying ships. The signalman in the control tower waved his flag at Tommy. The young flyer opened his throttle, the venerable craft waggled its wings, felt the call of the skies, and rolled smoothly down the runway. Tommy took his time in getting off the field. With as little strain as possible on the ancient wings he lifted his plane into the air.

The flag waved again and Ace, pushing his throttle ahead hard, flipped the tail of his ship up and went scooting after the leisurely soaring Tommy.

The planes climbed in easy circles with Ace going up much faster than Tommy. They were up a thousand feet when Tim felt a tug at his arm and turned to face the narcotics inspector. “Give me a hand and we’ll see what we can find in McDowell’s plane,” said Prentiss. They hastened into the hangar and climbed into the cabin. Tommy had given them the exact location of the hidden compartment and without wasting time Prentiss took an iron bar and smashed his way to it. With eager fingers he ripped away the splintered wood of the top and delved inside. When his hands came into view again they held small white containers.

“We’ve got McDowell with the goods this time,” said Prentiss. “When he comes down I’ll arrest him. I’ll turn this over to the field manager to place in his safe while I’m out getting McDowell.”

Prentiss turned back to Tim as he started for the administration building.

“Better come along when I go after McDowell,” he said. “I may need some help. Bring your friend with you.”

“I will if I can find him,” promised Tim. “He disappeared about half an hour ago and I haven’t seen him since.”

A commotion near the pilot’s quarters drew his attention just then. Someone broke away and started running toward him. It was Ralph, staggering slightly, and holding a blood-stained handkerchief to his head.