“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.”