When Tim reached the News office he found a note rolled into his typewriter asking him to see the managing editor. He crossed the large news room and knocked at the glass-panelled door which bore the printed words, “George Carson, Managing Editor.”

“Come in,” boomed a voice from behind the door and Tim stepped into the office. “You wanted to see me?”

“Sit down, Tim,” smiled the sandy-haired editor who guided the destinies of the News. He motioned toward a chair.

“I’ve had some correspondence with Ace McDowell of the High Flyers, a flying circus that is rated one of the best in the country. He wants to bring his show in here this week-end under the auspices of the News. What do you think about it?”

“I’ve never met Ace or any of his fliers,” replied Tim, “but they have the reputation of putting on a good air show.”

“It struck me as rather a good idea,” went on the managing editor. “We could give the show a lot of space in the News and it would help popularize the airport. Some people are kicking about the taxes they have to pay to help support the field. Do you think you could arrange things with Carl Hunter so the show can come in Saturday afternoon and put on their stunts Sunday? Of course they’ll be carrying passengers between stunt flights.”

“I’ll call Hunter at once,” promised Tim.

He left the managing editor’s office and placed the call from one of the telephones in the editorial room.

“I’ve no objections to the High Flyers,” the airport manager said, “but they’ll have to pay the field the usual percentage for taking up passengers.”

“I’ll put that in the contract,” promised Tim. “Keep this under your hat for I wouldn’t want the Advance to print the story of our own air show first.”

“I’ll forget all about it until I read your story tomorrow,” promised Hunter.

Tim returned to the managing editor’s office.

“Hunter has no objections but the High Flyers must pay the field fifteen per cent of all the money they take in on passenger rides. That’s the customary percentage for barnstormers.”

The managing editor had the contract from the High Flyers on his desk and Tim, at his suggestion, filled out the blank.

“I’ll telegraph McDowell that we will expect them to land here Saturday,” said Carson. “They’re over at Charleston this week.”

“You might ask him to send on any pictures of the flyers and planes that are available,” suggested Tim.

When Tim left the managing editor’s office he knew he was in for a busy week. There would be stories every day about the flying circus and then the problems of parking and policing the airport, for a huge crowd would be on hand to see the stunt flying.

“Get the Jupiter all tuned up?” asked someone behind him.

Tim turned to face Ralph Graves, another News reporter who had been his flying companion on many an adventure. Two years before when news had been breaking fast on the skyways, Tim had trained Ralph in flying and the other reporter now held a transport license. They were bosom companions and their managing editor counted on them coming in with any story to which they were assigned.

“I didn’t get all of the plugs cleaned,” said Tim, “so I’m having the boys at the field finish the job.”

“What’s on Carson’s mind?” asked Ralph, jerking a thumb toward the managing editor’s door.

“He’s just contracted to sponsor the appearance here of Ace McDowell and the High Flyers. They’ll be in Saturday and put on their stunts Sunday afternoon.”

“Which means plenty of work for us,” commented Ralph.

“It will mean plenty of work but it will have everyone talking about the News being alive and wide awake and that’s what we want. The Advance is slipping every day and some morning this fall I wouldn’t be surprised if we wake up and find that our rival paper has folded up and, like the Arabs, silently stolen away.”

“That won’t hurt my feelings a bit,” said Ralph. “The fellows on the Advance have made it mighty tough for us these last few months. They lie, cheat and steal to get their stories and I’ve run into some actual bribery.”

“So have I, but it won’t win for them in the long run. I’m glad we’re working for a paper and an editor that’s clean from top to bottom.”

Returning to his desk, Tim rummaged through the drawers until he found an aviation magazine which contained an illustrated sketch of Ace McDowell and his flying circus. McDowell was short and swarthy with eyes that were a little too close together to suit Tim. But the News reporter knew that the head of the flying circus was a real flyer and would put on a good show. There was no sense in building up a prejudice just from a picture.

Tim rolled a sheet of copy paper into his typewriter and after a moment’s thought on the wording of his opening sentence, started hammering out the story announcing the coming of the flying circus. By the use of plenty of adjectives he contrived to write a full column and, after reading over the story and correcting one or two minor errors, he laid it on the copy desk.

Dan Watkins, veteran head of the desk, looked up from beneath his green eye-shade.

“Good story?” he asked.

“One of the best you’ll ever read when it comes to writing a lot from a little,” grinned Tim. “As a matter of fact, Dan, we’re promoting an air circus next Sunday and I have a hunch that Mr. Carson will want a full page headline on one of the inside pages tomorrow.”

The chief copyreader scanned the story with practiced eye.

“I should say your hunch is correct. I’ll mark it for an inside banner right now.”

The chief copyreader was the only one at the large desk and Tim sat down on the edge of the horseshoe-shaped work table.

“I wish you had been at the airport this afternoon,” he said. “You’ve an uncanny memory for faces and names and it would have come in handy.”

“See someone you couldn’t place?”

“There’s something vaguely familiar about him. I’ve seen his picture some place and I’ve a hunch there’s a mighty good story connected with his coming to Atkinson.”

“You can always ask them questions,” grinned Dan.

“I asked plenty of questions and didn’t get a thing.”

“Wouldn’t he talk?”

“He talked but he didn’t say anything. I tried the stewardess and also Carl Hunter but both of them had received instructions from the general manager of the line in Chicago to extend this man every courtesy and do as he directed. The stewardess had him down as ‘Mr. Seven’ because he occupied chair seven coming out. When I tackled him about that he said that ‘Mr. Seven’ was a good enough name. I couldn’t make a dent in him. He’s smooth as silk and as hard as steel.”

“What are you going to do about it?”

“I don’t know exactly. I’ll try to keep tab on him at the Ransom House where he is staying but with this flying circus coming to town I won’t have much extra time. I’m going to dig into the files and see what I can find there. I’m positive I’ve seen his picture in the last year.”

“I‘ll trail along over to the hotel with you if you’d like. Maybe I could identify him. I’ve got one of those card index memories.”

“I thought maybe you’d help me out, Dan. We’ll have a try at it after supper. I’ll meet you at the Ransom House.”

Tim and Ralph had dinner together down town and Tim told of his meeting the mysterious “Mr. Seven.”

“Sounds like a story to me,” chuckled Ralph, “and I’ll be way wrong if you don’t dig it out. Guess I’ll invite myself in on the party tonight and trail over to the Ransom House with you.”

“Glad to have you. Maybe you’ll be able to identify my mysterious stranger.”

They discussed plans for the flying circus and after leaving the restaurant proceeded to the city’s leading hotel. Dan Watkins was waiting for them in the lobby.

“I’ll see what name he registered under,” said Dan. Inquiry at the desk revealed that the object of Dan’s curiosity had registered as Mr. G. Seven of Chicago.

“He’s in the dining room,” said Tim when he rejoined his companions. “We might as well sit down here. He’ll have to pass almost directly in front of us, which will give Dan a good chance to see him.”

“If Dan can’t identify him, I’ll be glad to help you go through the files,” offered Ralph.

“Thanks. With all of the details necessary in arranging for the flying circus I’ll be glad to have a little extra help. Look sharp now. Here comes our man.”

“Mr. Seven” was dressed in the same well-tailored suit he had worn when he stepped out of the Day Express and into the life of the flying reporter. He walked slowly from the dining room toward the elevators in full view of the sharp eyes of the newspapermen. They watched the elevator doors close and turned to pool the results.

Dan Watkins shook his head.

“I’m afraid I’m of no help. There’s something definitely familiar about the face but I can’t place the name. Maybe it will come to me later.”

Tim swung around to Ralph. “What about you?”

“I’m just another disappointment and in the same fix as Dan. ‘Mr. Seven’s’ face is familiar but that’s as far as it goes. His name is among the missing.”

“If ‘Mr. Seven’ will only stay around until this air circus is over Sunday I’ll find out what’s behind his mysterious coming to Atkinson,” said Tim, who felt that “Mr. Seven” had challenged his ability as a reporter.

On leaving the hotel, they parted, the chief copy reader returning to his bachelor headquarters and Tim and Ralph going to the News building where they hauled out files of the paper and spread the heavily-bound books on their desks.

“We’d better check together,” suggested Tim. “Then there will be no chance of our missing a single tip.”

For an hour they poured over one volume, scanning each page and watching with especial care the picture page which was a daily feature.

“I’m too sleepy to go on,” said Tim when the city hall clock chimed eleven times. “Being outdoors most of the afternoon working on the plane gave me a yen for bed even though I want to keep on digging into the file. I might go right on over the very picture I’m looking for.”

Ralph picked up a telephone and called the Ransom House, where he ascertained from the clerk on duty that Mr G. Seven had indicated he would be a guest there for at least a week.

Relaying that information on to Tim, Ralph added, “Now you can go to bed tonight and sleep soundly.”

They had just finished putting away the files when the door of the editorial room swung open and a stranger walked in. He was middle aged, with close-cropped, iron-gray hair, piercing blue eyes and large, capable hands.

“I’m looking for Tim Murphy and Ralph Graves, flying reporters of the News” he said.

“I’m Murphy,” said Tim, “and my companion is Ralph Graves.”

“Then I’m fortunate to find you together. My card may give you some idea of what I want.”

Tim took the engraved piece of pasteboard and read the following words: “Henry Prentiss, United States Bureau of Narcotics.”

“I’m glad to know you, Mr. Prentiss,” said Tim, “but I’m afraid your card hasn’t given me any clue on what you’re here for.”

“I understand the High Flyers and Ace McDowell are going to put on their air circus here Sunday under the auspices of the News.”

“That’s correct, but no announcement has been made yet.”

“Then you’re likely to have two stories for your paper next Monday, the actual story of the flying circus and the story of the arrest of Ace McDowell as the head of a notorious ring of dope smugglers.”