m walked a tall man. The man had a lean, weathered face with a
scar across the right cheek. He wore a checked suit and a pearl-gray
hat with a broad brim. The hat could have come from no place but the
western part of the United States.

Stan recognized him at once as Charles L. Milton. He didn't have to
guess twice why Garret had him in hand and why he had taken him to the
squadron mess. Garret wanted Milton to see Stan. Quickly moving around a
corner, Stan headed for a hangar. He was sure they had not seen him.

As he strode swiftly along, Stan faced the ghost of his past. Milton was
an American aircraft engineer. He had designed at least two of the
newest models and knew everyone in the industry over in the United
States. He knew Stan Wilson very well. As he entered the hangar Stan
reflected bitterly that he should have known the British Isles would be
swarming with American experts and engineers, now that a great effort
was being made to help the besieged English nation. He had about as much
chance of hiding in a Royal Air Force squadron as Joe Louis would have
in not being recognized at Madison Square Garden.

He might be able to dodge Milton for a while. If he could only shake
Garret he might do it for quite a while. Not that his conscience wasn't
clear. He had been framed. Framed by Nazi saboteurs, Fifth Column
operators. That was the reason he was so eager to get in every lick he
could against the monster Hitler had built to swallow the world.

He stood inside the shaded doorway to the hangar and watched Milton step
into a car. When the car had rolled away he turned back toward
headquarters. Within an hour he had to be back where he could hear the
blare of the intersquadron speaker, to be on call for duty. He was
moving along, scowling at the busy scene upon the field. As he passed
the door of the O.C.'s office it opened and Wing Commander Farrell
stepped out. Stan saluted and the commander returned the salute. He
halted abruptly.

"Well, well," he said. "Just the man I'm looking for. Come in,
Lieutenant."

Stan's heart dropped with a thud. This likely meant a lot of questions
to be answered, questions put into the O.C.'s head by Garret.

"Yes, sir," he answered and followed the Commander inside.

Farrell seated himself behind his desk. He motioned toward a chair. "Sit
down, Wilson."

Stan sat down and waited. The Commander fished into his desk and took
out a cigar. He clipped the end off with a silver