The high pitched drone of a wasp engine sounded over the municipal field at Atkinson and Tim Murphy, famous flying reporter of the Atkinson News, poked a grease-smudged face out from behind the cowling of a trim biplane and squinted skyward. Against the brilliant sky of the late summer afternoon was the outline of one of the new high speed transports of the Red Arrow Transcontinental Air Express Company.

The Day Express, Chicago to the west coast, was swinging around, preparatory to landing on the smooth, crushed-rock runway. Tim watched with appreciative eyes. The new transports, capable of winging their way from coast to coast at better than three miles a minute, always fascinated him. He envied the trim, clear-eyed young chaps who sat at the controls while they in turn would have been willing to exchange their daily routine for the adventurous news assignments which often came Tim’s way.

The twin motors, mounted in nacelles projecting from the sturdy wing, idled as the ship drifted downward to touch lightly on the runway and roll smoothly toward the main hangar.

“Star gazing again?” asked a quiet voice at Tim’s elbow.

The flying reporter turned quickly. Carl Hunter, manager of the airport, was beside him.

“I always get a thrill watching those high speeds come in. There’s something in it that gets into my blood and makes it tingle.”

“They’re the finest transport planes in the world,” nodded Hunter.

“I’d like to fly one of them,” mused Tim.

Hunter looked at Tim shrewdly. The flying reporter was slender but his muscles were like tensed steel. His blue eyes were clear and unwavering. There was a pleasant twist to his lips but from experience the field manager knew that they could snap into an uncompromising line of determination.

“I’ll get you a job on the Transcontinental any day you want one,” he said. “Come over to my office and fill out the application blank.”

“That would mean leaving the News,” said Tim. Then, as Hunter grinned broadly, he added, “I guess the smell of printer’s ink is stronger than the call of the skyways. I’m a reporter first and a flyer second.”

“I wouldn’t rank either of your abilities ahead of the other. You’re first class at both.”

“Thanks, Carl. That reminds me. Have one of the boys finish up this job. Give all of the plugs a good cleaning. I’d almost forgotten I’ve got another column to write for my department in tomorrow’s paper.”

“I’ll make out a work ticket right away.”

Tim slipped out of his jumper and followed the field manager toward the main hangar. The usual crowd of curious people was lined up inside the ropes to watch the passengers as they disembarked. Tim, always on the lookout, scanned them as they came down the steps from the plane.

Two attractive girls were first. They looked as though they might be movie actresses. He’d check the passenger list with the stewardess to make sure. An actress was always worth a paragraph or two.

The last man to leave the ship drew Tim’s attention. There was something vaguely familiar in the carriage of the head and the set of the jaw.

The stewardess came by and Tim hailed her. “Who’s the tall, well-built fellow in the gray suit?” he asked.

The girl scanned the passenger list.

“Sorry, I can’t tell you. He isn’t listed.”

“What do you mean by that? Is he traveling on a pass?”

“Hardly. I collected his fare in Chicago and he’s getting off here.”

“Then you must know his name.”

“He didn’t give me his name and instructions from the general manager were to do as he directed so I’ve listed him on my seat chart as ‘Mr. Seven.’ That’s the chair he occupied on the trip out.”

Tim thanked the stewardess and hurried into Carl Hunter’s office.

“Who’s the mysterious man who came in on the Day Express?”

“He’s just as mysterious to me as he is to you,” replied the field chief. “Why don’t you ask him what it’s all about? I’ve had a radio from the general manager to extend him every courtesy and not to ask questions, but I guess that doesn’t cover you.”

“Asking questions is one of the things I do best,” grinned Tim as he left the office.

“Mr. Seven” was superintending the unloading of his luggage from the plane. Three large traveling bags were pulled out of the baggage compartment and Tim whistled as he thought of the excess fees which must have been paid for the transport of the heavy bags by air.

When “Mr. Seven” had made sure that his baggage was in proper order, Tim stepped up.

“I’m Tim Murphy of the Atkinson News,” he said. “Your face seems vaguely familiar but I can’t place your name. Since you are stopping here, I’d like very much to have a story.”

“Sorry, Murphy, but there’s nothing I can tell you. I prefer not to talk to reporters.”

Tim was undaunted. “Do you plan on staying long in Atkinson?”

“That’s another question I decline to answer.” The muscles around the stranger’s jaw were tightening and Tim sensed stormy weather ahead. Normally he would have let the whole matter drop but there was something so definitely perplexing in the other man’s attitude that he persisted in his questioning.

“You must have some special mission here,” said Tim.

“I told you before that I wouldn’t talk. You can fire away with questions all the rest of the afternoon and you’ll get the same result—zero. Now if you’ll be good enough to suggest your best hotel, I’ll be on my way up town.”

Tim named the city’s leading hotel. “I’ll be glad to take you there in one of the News’ cars,” he added.

“Thanks, but I’d have to parry too many of your questions.”

“It’s a draw so far,” smiled Tim, “but I’ll bet I know your name before another 24 hours, ‘Mr. Seven.’”

“Why call me ‘Mr. Seven?’”

“That’s what the stewardess did. You were in chair seven coming out from Chicago.”

“It’s as good a name as any other.”

“Except your real one,” interjected Tim.

“Mr. Seven” bundled his bags into a taxi and whirled away toward the city while Tim stood on the ramp and gazed after the car.

“That fellow’s face is familiar,” he muttered half aloud, “and I’m going to dig into our files at the office until I find his picture. Unless my hunch is way wrong, there must be a big story connected with him.”

Tim’s hunches were notoriously right and just how correct this one was, even Tim would never have dared dream.