"The newspapers are the only thing that worry me," said Cummings. "Those damn reporters are never satisfied. They keep digging around until they stumble across something and then tear things to pieces. What about them? You haven't heard of anyone of them asking too many questions or getting suspicious, have you?"
Gibson laughed.
"Forget it, Cummings," he said. "I'll handle the reporters. They're not half as smart as they think they are and as people give them credit for being."
In the glare from the electric torch that Brennan focused on Smith's notebook John saw Brennan wink at him.
"Why, two of them—Brennan and Gallant—are my best friends," Gibson continued. "They've fallen for every stunt we've pulled."
Brennan winked again.
"Don't be so cock-sure," Cummings cautioned. "I've had more experience with them than you have and you're all wrong if you think they're a bunch of dumb-bells. You'll have to be mighty careful. You've sailed right along without any trouble because you've had sound advice. As soon as you think you're out of danger, that's the time something's sure to happen."
"I'll admit you've steered me straighter than I could have gone alone," said Gibson, "but don't worry, I'm going to take good care of myself."
There was a silence of a minute. John pictured Gibson and the "Gink" regarding each other critically through the smoke of their cigarette and cigar. It was Cummings who spoke first.
"Gibson," he said, "this will be our last meeting before the election."