"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."