Like an eager hound straining at his leash was Willie during the next two days. The possibility of success in his venture seemed to Willie to mean so much that he could hardly keep his mind on his work. It seemed to him that he must be present to aid in the search of the suspected goods—provided, of course, the steamer contained any. A hundred times he was on the point of asking his chief for this favor. But each time he fought down the wish. His place, he knew well enough, was right where he was—at the gate. And the best way he could make good with his chief was by staying right at his post, at the gate. But it was not strange that Willie began to hate that gate. It seemed to be a bar to his own desires. Somehow he managed to keep his lips sealed, though his manner showed plainly enough that something was troubling him. “What’s worrying you, Willie?” said Mr. King, late on the afternoon of the second day. “I can’t help thinking that maybe—perhaps—Mr. Easterly might—might miss—might overlook something,” stammered Willie, afraid to say too much, yet fearful of saying too little. Mr. King laughed. He had been a boy himself, and the time was not so far distant, either, that he had forgotten how boys feel about things that mean a great deal to them. “I think I understand,” he said sympathetically. “I’ll tell Mr. Easterly to be particularly careful if he finds anything for Roukas.” When word came, next day, that the steamer they were looking for had left Quarantine and was on her way to her dock, Mr. King called Willie to his desk. “That boat you’re looking for,” he said, “is on her way up from Quarantine now. She’ll be docked by ten o’clock. I want you to take this letter to Mr. Henderson. You know him, don’t you? He’s one of our special agents.” “Yes, sir, I know him,” said Willie. “Well, you may leave here at twenty minutes of ten. Put the message in Mr. Henderson’s own hands. Do you understand?” “Yes, sir.” “And,” said Mr. King, with a smile, “if you don’t get back here until one o’clock it will be all right.” “Oh!” gasped Willie. “Thank you ever so much, Mr. King.” Willie could hardly stay in his seat until nine-forty came. Then he grabbed his cap and bolted through the gate. Like so many other seeming obstacles in life, it was no longer a bar to progress. It was an opening to advancement. At least so it seemed to Willie. He ran to the subway, caught a train, rode to the proper station, then tore away hotfoot for the pier.