He paused, then added smoothly: "I need scarcely tell you that this
conversation is altogether unofficial."
These words were far from pacifying the Chief Inspector. The indignation
of a betrayed tight-rope performer was strong within him. In his pride
of a trusted servant he was affected by the assurance that the rope was
not shaken for the purpose of breaking his neck, as by an exhibition of
impudence. As if anybody were afraid! Assistant Commissioners come and
go, but a valuable Chief Inspector is not an ephemeral office phenomenon.
He was not afraid of getting a broken neck. To have his performance
spoiled was more than enough to account for the glow of honest
indignation. And as thought is no respecter of persons, the thought of
Chief Inspector Heat took a threatening and prophetic shape. "You, my
boy," he said to himself, keeping his round and habitually roving eyes
fastened upon the Assistant Commissioner's face--"you, my boy, you don't
know your place, and your place won't know you very long either, I bet."
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