“Say, Jim,” Gibbs expostulated, “what are you doing with them?” “Why, my wife was asking this morning if I couldn’t get her a bunch. These’ll come in just right.” “You’re a funny guy to talk about grafting,” Gibbs grumbled, “I ain’t showing you nothin’ more.” “Never you mind me,” Duncan commanded. “You keep your own eyes peeled. Old man Taylor’s been raising the deuce around here about reports that some of you fellows still take tips.” Gibbs had heard such rumors too often for them to affect him now. “Oh, it’s just the usual August holler,” he declared. Duncan contradicted him, “No, it isn’t,” he observed. “It’s because the Collector and the Secretary of the Treasury have started an investigation about who’s getting the rake-off for allowing stuff to slip through. I heard the Secretary was coming over here to-day. You keep your eyes peeled, Harry.” “If times don’t change,” Gibbs said with an air of gloom, “I’m going into the police department.” He turned about to see if the steps he heard at the door were those of the man he had come to see. He breathed relief when he saw it was only Peter, the doorkeeper. “Mr. Duncan,” said the man, “Miss Ethel Cartwright has just ’phoned that she’s on her way and would be here in fifteen minutes.” Gibbs looked from one to the other with his accustomed mild interest. He could see that the news of which he could make little had excited Duncan. It was evidently something important. Directly the doorkeeper had gone Duncan called his chief on the telephone and Gibbs sauntered nearer the ’phone. To hear both sides of the conversation would make it much easier. “Got a cigar, Jim?” he inquired casually of the other, who was holding the wire. “Yes,” said Duncan, taking one from his pocket. Gibbs reached a fat hand over for it, “Thanks,” he returned simply. Duncan bit the end off and put it in his own mouth. “And I’m going to smoke it myself,” he observed. Gibbs shook his head reprovingly at this want of generosity and took a cigar from his own pocket. “All right then; I’ll have to smoke one of my own.” Just then Duncan began to speak over the wire. “Hello. Hello, Chief. Miss Ethel Cartwright just ’phoned she’d be here in fifteen minutes.... Yes, sir.... I’ll have her wait.” When he had rung off, Gibbs could see his interest was increasing. “What do you think of her falling for a bum stall like that?” “Who?” Gibbs demanded. “Which? What stall?” “Why, Miss Cartwright!” said Duncan. “Ain’t I talking about her?” “Well, who is she?” the aggrieved Gibbs cried. “Is she a smuggler?” “No. She’s a swell society girl,” said Duncan in a superior manner. “If she ain’t a smuggler, what’s she here for then?” Gibbs had a gentle pertinacity in sticking to his point.