“This thing,” said Gibbs the discoverer, “is made out in the name of Richard Jones!”
“Well, do you get the initials?” Denby queried.
“R. J.,” Gibbs read out as one might mystic things without meaning.
“That’s me,” Denby smiled, “R. J. of the secret service. That’s the name I’m known by.”
Gibbs offered his hand. “If you’re R. J.,” he said admiringly, “I’d like to shake hands with you. Are you, on the level, R. J.?”
“I’m afraid I am,” the other admitted.
“It’s a lie,” Taylor shouted.
Denby pointed to the paper. “You can’t get away from that signature. It’s signed by the President of the United States.”
“I tell you it’s a fake,” the man cried angrily.
“They don’t seem to think so,” Denby remarked equably.