"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. CHAPTER TWO A Secret Service Case When Tim reached the _News_ office he found a note rolled into his typewriter asking him to see the managing editor. He crossed the large news room and knocked at the glass-panelled door which bore the printed words, "George Carson, Managing Editor." "Come in," boomed a voice from behind the door and Tim stepped into the office. "You wanted to see me?" "Sit down, Tim," smiled the sandy-haired editor who guided the destinies of the _News_. He motioned toward a chair.