“I hadn’t noticed her brooch,” said Sam.
“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?”