"King, Matt King."
Murgatroyd gave a grunt of surprise, jammed his glasses on his nose, and stared at his caller with renewed interest; then, suddenly, he pressed a push button at the side of his desk.
A clerk appeared, a wizened, dried-up little man, who came in with a cringing air.
"Yes, Mr. Murgatroyd?"
"File 'K,' Prebbles. And dust it off. Why don't you go around this place with a duster, once in a while? The older you get, Prebbles, the less you seem to know."
The clerk winced. With a deferential bow, he turned and slunk out of the room. He returned in a few minutes, a duster in one hand and a battered letter file in the other. Murgatroyd took the file on his desk and sent Prebbles away with a curt gesture.
After a brief search through the file, the broker developed a number of newspaper clippings.
"That your picture?" he asked, holding up a clipping with an electrotype reproduction of the king of the motor boys at the top of it.
"It's supposed to be," smiled Matt, wondering why this close-fisted broker had gone to so much trouble to collect the clippings.
"You had a flying machine called the Hawk, quite a while ago, didn't you?" pursued Murgatroyd, studying the clippings.