horizon grew darker, and widened as it blackened. He was avid of
something more than power. He thirsted not only for its operation, but
also for its display. He rebelled against the idea of a continually
submerged personality. He nursed a keen hunger to leave some record of
what he did or had done. He objected to it all as a conspiracy of
obliteration, objected to it as an actor would object to playing to an
empty theater. There was no one to appreciate and applaud. And an
audience was necessary. He enjoyed the unctuous salute of the
patrolman on his beat, the deferential door-holding of "office boys,"
the quick attentiveness of minor operatives. But this was not enough.
He felt the normal demand to assert himself, to be known at his true
worth by both his fellow workers and the world in general.

It was not until the occasion when he had run down a gang of
Williamsburg counterfeiters, however, that his name was conspicuously
in print. So interesting were the details of this gang's operations,
so typical were their methods, that Wilkie or some official under
Wilkie had handed over to a monthly known as _The Counterfeit Detector_
a full account of the case. A New York paper has printed a somewhat
distorted and romanticized copy of this, having sent a woman reporter
to interview Blake--while a staff artist made a pencil drawing of the
Secret Service man during the very moments the latter was smilingly
denying them either a statement or a photograph. Blake knew that
publicity would impair his effectiveness. Some inner small voice
forewarned him that all outside recognition of his calling would take
away from his value as an agent of the Secret Service. But his hunger
for his rights as a man was stronger than his discretion as an
official. He said nothing openly; but he allowed inferences to be
drawn and the artist's pencil to put the finishing touches to the
sketch.