"Dear me!" said T. B. politely, "wants payment in advance?"
"No; that's the curious thing about it," said the reporter. "All he wants is protection."
T. B. stopped dead and faced the young man. He dropped the air of boredom right away.
"Protection?" he said quickly, "from whom?"
"That is just what he doesn't say—in fact, he's rather vague on that point—why don't you go up and see Delawn, the editor?"
T. B. thought a moment.
"Yes," he nodded. "That is an idea. I will go at once."
In the holy of holies, the inner room within the inner room, wherein the editor of the London Morning Journal saw those visitors who were privileged to pass the outer portal, T. B. Smith sat, a sorely puzzled man, a scrap of disfigured paper in his hands.
He read it again and looked up at the editor.
"This might of course be a fake," he said.