“I had. That’s the difference. Still, it isn’t fair to blame you. I’m a professional observer.” Sam took Stewart to mean that he was a detective, but hadn’t time to ask for confirmation, because Stewart asked instead: “And what, by the way, are you?” And threw him into some embarrassment by the question. What, indeed, at the moment was he? “Doesn’t your observation tell you?” he fenced. “It told me last night that you’re a considerable lunatic. Did you buy that stuff of Adams’?” “Yes, I did.” “Thought I saw you in the act as I went out. Obviously, then, you’re a tripe merchant.” “I wonder,” said Sam, “whether you could help me, Stewart. Seriously, I mean.” “In the tripe trade?” “I want very much to meet a journalist.” He thought a detective ought to know journalists. “But, my dear fellow, this is a café. It isn’t a bar. What do you want a journalist for?” “I will tell that to the journalist.” “If you want to start a paper and you’re looking for an editor, you needn’t look further than me. There have been candid moments in my life when I have called myself a journalist. At present, I edit the _Manchester Warden_, but I’m open to conviction.” He didn’t quite edit that paper--yet, but reported for it at six pounds a week. He did not know shorthand, but he quoted Joseph Conrad and Henry James, correctly and incongruously, when he wrote a notice of a music-hall performance. “I’m afraid,” said Sam astutely, “that when I said a journalist, I meant something very different from you, but I will tell you how I stand and perhaps you will advise me. Last night, as you know, I bought Adams’ paper. I gave him twenty-five pounds for it.” “Lunacy,” said Stewart, “is a mild word for your complaint. Twenty-five shillings would be a top price for it in a friendly market.” “To-day I reached the office to learn that my employer had died suddenly. You remember Lance Travers? It was his father, and with his death, for all practical purposes the business comes to an end. Well, you see my position.” Stewart quoted Sheridan: “‘The Spanish Fleet thou canst not see, because it is not yet in sight.’ And much the same applies to your position, my lad. Its postal address is the Womb of Time.” “That is true,” said Sam. “And I may add that I am engaged to be married.” “I can admire thoroughness,” said Stewart. “You omit none of the essentials.” “Now, with it all,” said Sam, “I’m still too proud to go to Adams and ask him to let me off my bargain.” “And it wouldn’t be any use if you did,” said Stewart. “He’d laugh at you.” “I can believe it of him. But I’m landed with his paper. It has cost me twenty-live pounds. I meant to print it, and I mean to print it, but I mean now to sell it when it is printed.” Sam left Stewart to suppose that, had Travers not died, he would have distributed that pamphlet free. “Money,” he added, “is a necessity.”