Twenty-five miles east of the place where the bandits had stolen the Good News, Tim, Ralph and the state police came upon the crumpled remains of the plane.

From all indications the bandits had landed safely, then opened the throttle and sent the Good News charging into a clump of trees. The wings of the crimson plane had folded back along the fuselage, the propeller was splintered into a thousand bits and it was generally ready for the scrap heap.

Tim went wild with rage and wept in his futile anger. When he finally calmed down it was with a quietness that foreboded no good for Shanghai Sam and Pierre Petard.

“We can’t learn anything more by inspecting what’s left of the Good News,” he said. “Let’s circle around and see if we can find trace of a car they might have had waiting for them to make their getaway.”

Captain Raymond agreed that Tim’s suggestion was a good one and the state police spread out in their search for clues.

Tim and Ralph, working together, found the only clue of the afternoon. Half a mile beyond the wreckage of the Good News they found two marks, about six feet apart and nearly forty feet long, in a small field which was hidden from the nearest road by a heavy growth of trees. Tim made a careful inspection of the marks.

“That settles it,” he said finally. “I’m going east tonight and when I come back we’ll make it hot for the fellows who stole the Good News and then deliberately crashed it.”

When they returned to Atkinson, Tim carried his story to the managing editor and Carson was wrathfully indignant. He had no word of censure for his flying reporters. Instead, he praised them for their daring and urged them to new efforts in the detection of Shanghai Sam and Pierre Petard.

“I’m playing a long hunch,” said Tim, “but I feel that if I can go east tonight, I’ll be able to learn information there that will bring about the arrest of this pair of air pirates.”

“Go as far as you like, Tim,” said the managing editor, “just as long as you deliver the goods.”

“Thanks, Mr. Carson. I’ll leave on the early night train for New York.”

Ralph helped Tim throw a few things in a traveling bag and saw his flying companion to the union station and aboard the limited which would carry him on his quest for new clues.

“What’s clicking in the old bean?” Ralph asked as they stood beside the Pullman.

“Just a wild hunch,” said Tim, “and I don’t want to be laughed at if it goes wrong. That’s why I’m keeping it under my hat. If there is anything to it, you’ll be the first to find out. And say, while I’m away, beg a plane off Carl Hunter and have it ready when I return. We may need a ship in a hurry. We’ve done plenty of favors for Carl and he’ll be glad to help us out.”

“I’ll have a ship ready before you’re back,” promised Ralph as Tim swung up on the steps of the slowly moving train. “Good luck.”

The limited picked up speed and its tail lights vanished as Ralph stood on the platform, wondering what queer mission had taken Tim east so suddenly.

Thirty-six hours after leaving Atkinson Tim awoke to find his train pulling into the outskirts of New York. The steam locomotive was uncoupled from the long string of Pullmans and an electric engine took its place at the head of the train for the few remaining miles into the heart of the city. The train picked up speed rapidly and rolled steadily into Manhattan, hesitating only a moment before it plunged into the darkness of the tunnel under the river. Then they were in the great terminal, where trains were arriving or departing continuously throughout the day.

Tim went to a hotel the managing editor had recommended and after leaving his traveling bag set forth in quest of the information which he felt would result in the apprehension of Shanghai Sam and Pierre Petard and put an end to the series of crimes which they had carried out successfully in the middle west.

The flying reporter’s first call was at the office of the largest aircraft manufacturer in the United States. After some insistence he was admitted to the office of Herman Bauer, the chief designer, a quiet, gray-haired man. In a few words Tim explained his mission.

“I’m glad you came to us,” said Bauer. “I’ve been reading of these robberies and once or twice the stories have mentioned how completely the bandits disappear and that the only marks they leave behind are those parallel lines in small clearings.”

“Then you’ve guessed what they must be using?” asked Tim eagerly.

“Yes,” assented Bauer, “but I’m afraid I can’t help you much more than to say that I believe you’re on the right track. Our company doesn’t go in for that sort of thing and if we did we’d have to have assurance that the machine would be used legally.”

“I hardly expected that your firm was involved in any way,” explained Tim, “but with your knowledge of the companies capable of doing such a job I thought you might be able to give me some valuable leaders.”

“I can’t off hand,” replied the designer, “but if you’ll come back this afternoon I’ll make some inquiries in the meantime and may have information that will help you.”

Tim thanked the aviation expert and passed the remaining hours of the morning walking through the streets of busy, restless New York.

At two o’clock he returned to Herman Bauer’s office. The designer greeted Tim cordially and turned to introduce a younger man who was in his office.

“I want you to know Mac Giddings,” he told Tim. “Mac is one of my assistants and has managed to uncover some information that should help you.”

Tim and the assistant designer shook hands cordially. They were of the same type, tall and slender, with a seriousness of purpose that brought an immediate and warm friendship.

“I’ve heard rumors for some time that a little company back in the Jersey mountains was up to some kind of a trick that wasn’t altogether above board,” said Giddings. “One of our draughtsmen was fired by them but before he left he saw enough of the plans to see what they had in mind. If you say the word, we’ll hop in my car and drive out. We can make it before sundown.”

Tim agreed to the assistant designer’s suggestion and they were soon threading their way through the heavy mid-afternoon traffic. Once out of the heart of the city they struck a thoroughfare and sped across the Jersey flats.

The flying reporter told his new friend of their experiences with Shanghai Sam and Pierre Petard and gave him an outline of his own conclusions.

“Seems to me you’ve found the solution,” said Giddings as he swung his machine off the main highway. “And I wouldn’t be surprised if we verify it within the next two or three hours.”

The roads became rougher and their car labored up steep grades. Farm houses looked less prosperous and by six o’clock they had reached a section of Jersey with which few people were familiar. They were almost to the Pennsylvania line in a wild, sparsely settled region.

“We’d better leave my car here,” said Giddings, “and go the rest of the way on foot.”

He drove his car behind a thicket that screened it from the view of any chance passerby and they continued their journey afoot.

Half an hour later they topped a ridge and looked down on a valley, flanked on each side by small clearings. To the right of the creek were several frame houses while on the left side was a wide, low building, half frame, half canvas, which could be nothing but a hangar.

“Take it easy,” cautioned Giddings. “These people don’t like strangers and they’re apt to shoot first and ask questions afterwards.”

Tim and the assistant designer made their way toward the clearings with great caution. Fortunately they were on the left bank of the stream and would not have to cross it in order to reach the hangar.

A small crew of mechanics who had been at work in the hangar came out of the building and made their way across the rough bridge and to one of the houses which evidently was used as a mess house.

“Now’s our chance,” whispered Giddings as he moved toward the hangar.

“You don’t need to go,” said Tim, grabbing at his companion. “There is no need for you to take any chances. This is my game and I can see it through now.”

“I’ve voted myself in on it,” said Giddings. “Let’s go.”

They moved quietly through the underbrush and made their way toward the rear of the hangar. There they stopped and listened to make sure that no one had been left on guard.

“All clear,” whispered Tim. “I’m going in.”

The flying reporter found a place where he could wiggle under the canvas wall at the rear of the hangar. Giddings was right behind him and when they stood up it was to look upon the most unusual workshop either of them had ever seen.

Workbenches and lathes were along the walls of the makeshift hangar but the object which held their attention was the monoplane in the center.

“I’m right!” exclaimed Tim jubilantly, “I’m right!”

“You sure are,” agreed Giddings. “I’m going to have a look at this contraption.”

The monoplane was the strangest plane either of them had ever seen. They pinched themselves to make sure that they were not dreaming for it was such a bizarre looking craft.

“Old Man Bauer will have a fit when he hears about this,” chuckled Giddings, “for he has always had a pet theory that this type of machine would never fly. Said you couldn’t get enough power into the wing propellers.”

“I’d like to try it,” said Tim as they started a quick inspection of the monoplane.

The machine had been camouflaged by an expert. On the ground it would have been invisible from the air while in the air it would be practically invisible from the ground, so cleverly had the colors been mixed and camouflage been applied. But the feature of the monoplane which drew their attention was the wing propellers. At the outer tip of each wing were mounted horizontal propellers, each about four feet in diameter. Small, powerful air cooled motors supplied the power for the wing propellers while a standard whirlwind was the motive power for the main propeller in the nose of the ship.

“Talk about autogyros,” exclaimed Tim. “Why this thing could take off and land in a flower bed. I’ll bet those wing propellers can pull it almost straight up.”

“That’s the theory,” said Giddings, “and from the robberies that this gang you’re after has been getting away with successfully it looks to me like they’ve been using one of these machines, probably the first one this outfit ever turned out.”

“When I first saw those parallel tracks after the attempt to rob the midnight mail I figured they must be using some kind of a machine like this,” said Tim, “but I knew it would have to be more efficient than anything sold on the commercial market.”

“Let’s get out of here before dark,” said Giddings. “We’ve got a long trip back to the city and we can discuss plans on our way back.”

Tim agreed and they made their way out of the hangar and back to the car without detection.

On the trip to New York Tim discussed plans for the capture of Shanghai Sam and Pierre Petard with the young aircraft designer.

“I’ve got something I’ve been fooling with for a long time,” said Giddings. “It’s a sort of radio detector designed for use in time of war. When it is fitted into a plane you can ascertain whether any other ships are in the air and by adjustment of the detector tell how far away they are.”

“Just the thing I’ll need,” said Tim enthusiastically. “Is there any chance that you’ll lend it to me for a few days?”

“That’s why I mentioned it,” said Giddings. “The device needs a thorough testing and once I’ve proved its value I’ll have no trouble in selling my patents. We’ll both profit by your using it.”

When they reached the city Giddings drove to his apartment, which contained living quarters and a room which he had fitted up as an electrical laboratory.

Far into the night they worked in the laboratory, Giddings explaining the use of his radio detector and Tim working with it to be sure that he could handle it to the best advantage.

When the flying reporter left Giddings’ apartment he was burdened with the radio detector, which, although placed in a compact cabinet, was heavy.

“I’m going to report this outfit over in the Jersey woods,” said Giddings, “and it won’t take Uncle Sam long to put a damper on their activities. There will be no objection to their manufacture of their plane for commercial use but to make them especially for aerial bandits is a proposition that Uncle Sam won’t stand for.”

“I’m glad you’ll take care of that,” said Tim. “They really have a wonderful plane and it’s a shame that a crooked outfit has gotten hold of it. Undoubtedly money which the Sky Hawk obtained when he was at the peak of his career is behind them.”

“Which will be just one more reason why Uncle Sam will be glad to shut them up,” said Giddings. “By tomorrow afternoon the woods will be full of federal men for a surprise raid. Be sure and let me know how you come out and send the radio detector back as soon as you’re through.”

“I’ll do that,” promised Tim, “and thanks so much for all you’ve done for me.”

When the flying reporter reached his hotel, he found a telegram.

“We’ve been trying to find you since late afternoon,” said the clerk who handed him the message. “It was marked important.”

Tim tore open the yellow envelope and read the brief message. His senses reeled as the import of the telegram flashed through his mind.

Ralph had been kidnapped!