Gibbs smiled complacently. “Ain’t it funny,” he observed, “that you right here in the office don’t know?”
“Don’t know what?” Duncan retorted sharply; he disliked Gibbs in a patronizing rôle.
“That your boss Taylor is R. J.”
“Taylor!” Duncan cried. “You’re crazy! The heat’s got you, Harry.”
“Oh, indeed!” Gibbs said sarcastically. “Do you remember the Stuyvesant case?”
Duncan nodded.
“And do you remember that when Taylor took his vacation last year R. J. did some great work in the Crosby case? Put two and two together, Jim, and may be you’ll see daylight.”
“By George!” Duncan exclaimed, now impressed by Gibbs’ news. “I believe you’re right. Taylor never will speak about this R. J., now I come to think of it.” He raised his head as the sound of voices was heard in the passage.
“There he is,” Duncan whispered busying himself with a sheaf of declarations.
Gibbs looked toward the opening door nervously. It was one thing to criticize the deputy-surveyor in his absence and another to meet his look and endure his satire. His collar seemed suddenly too small, and he chewed his cigar violently.