I had established myself on the divan, and was puffing at a cigar, which I had bought by way of setting the coping-stone on my night’s extravagance, before he got up from his writing. “Those fellows,” he said, producing a bottle of whisky and a syphon from one of the lower drawers of the wardrobe, “did me a double service. They introduced me to you—say when—and they gave me——” “When.” “—an idea.” “But how did it happen?” I asked. “Quite simple,” he answered. “You see, my friends, when they call on me late at night, can’t get in by knocking at the front door. It is a shop-door, and is locked early. Vancott, my landlord, is a baker, and, as he has to be up making muffins somewhere about five in the morning—we all have our troubles—he does not stop up late. So people who want me go into the court, and see whether my lamp is burning by the window. If it is, they stand below and shout, ‘Julian,’ till I open the door into the court. That’s what happened tonight. I heard my name called, went down, and walked into the arms of the enterprising gentlemen whom you chanced to notice. They must have been very hungry, for even if they had carried the job through they could not have expected to make their fortunes. In point of fact, they would have cleared one-and-threepence. But when you’re hungry you can see no further than the pit of your stomach. Do you know, I almost sympathise with the poor brutes. People sometimes say to me, ‘What are you?’ I have often half a mind to reply, ‘I have been hungry.’ My stars, be hungry once, and you’re educated, if you don’t die of it, for a lifetime.” This sort of talk from a stranger might have been the prelude to an appeal for financial assistance. He dissipated that half-born thought. “Don’t be uneasy,” he said; “you have not been lured up here by the ruse of a clever borrower. I can do a bit of touching when in the mood, mind you, but you’re safe. You are here because I see that you are a pleasant fellow.” “Thank you,” I said. “Besides,” he continued, “I am not hungry at present. In fact, I shall never be hungry again.” “You’re lucky,” I remarked. “I am. I am the fortunate possessor of the knack of writing advertisements.” “Indeed,” I said, feeling awkward, for I saw that I ought to be impressed. “Ah!” he said, laughing outright. “You’re not impressed in the least, really. But I’ll ask you to consider what advertisements mean. First, they are the life-essence of every newspaper, every periodical, and every book.” “Every book?” “Practically, yes. Most books contain some latent support of a fashion in clothes or food or drink, or of some pleasant spot or phase of benevolence or vice, all of which form the interest of one or other of the sections of society, which sections require publicity at all costs for their respective interests.” I was about to probe searchingly into so optimistic a view of modern authorship, but he stalled me off by proceeding rapidly with his discourse.