The agent laughed. “Marrash Roukas is an assumed name,” he said. “The fellow is really a poor peddler named Selim Sora.” Willie’s face grew long. “Then we haven’t got anything on Habib Mahaleb, after all,” he cried. “On the contrary, we have a whole lot on him. At first brother Sora was as ignorant as a bronze statue. Couldn’t speak English, you know. But I soon got him to talking. Then he said it was all a mistake. He had gotten the names mixed when he asked for the goods. I showed him different. Next he tried to bribe me. But finally, when I told him it would mean a long term in prison unless he came through with the truth, he opened up and gave the whole game away. He’s just a tool for Mahaleb. The goods are ordered and paid for by Mahaleb and shipped to Roukas. Sora gets them at the pier and delivers them to Mahaleb. They thought we’d never see through the game. By George! They had reason to think so. Why, this thing has been going on for months. I’m going to tell Mr. King so and tell him that it is entirely due to you that we broke it up.” Willie’s eyes were shining bright. He hardly trusted himself to reply, but managed to say, “I’m mighty glad it wasn’t a pipe dream.” Then Mr. Easterly went on into Mr. King’s office, and Willie turned to his work. He was very happy over the outcome of the affair. If it were not for that awful suspicion of dishonesty that hung over his head, Willie would have been the happiest lad in New York. But he could never forget that he was under a cloud. He must go on with the tedious task of clearing away that cloud. All the afternoon he worked diligently at his desk. When five o’clock came, he put away his things and stepped to Mr. King’s door. “I’m going to work at my wireless until the building closes, Mr. King,” he said. His superior nodded and Willie went into his wireless room. He was very particular nowadays to let his boss know where he was. If only he could find some one who knew where he was during that fatal three-quarters of an hour, when the papers were stolen. He must hunt and hunt until he did find some one. He sat down at his wireless, adjusted his headpiece, threw over his switch and listened in, preparatory to sending out the first call he had selected to make that afternoon. Day after day during the two weeks or more that had elapsed since the papers were taken, he had been calling up amateur after amateur, asking the same question: “Have you any recollection of ever hearing the call CBWC sent out by CBM?” Always came the answer, “No.” Now he was about to go on with his seemingly hopeless quest. But just as he put his finger to his key, to flash out the first of the signal calls, he was startled by hearing his own signal. “CBM—CBM—CBM de KWC.”