'I'm paying the sum demanded!'

'Quite so, quite so. But I—'

'Will he honour the contract?'

'To the letter. That at least is certain. Dwarfs are sticklers in such matters. All you need to do is sign and, regrettably, pay.'

Miss Dearheart reached into her bag and placed a thick sheet of paper on the table. 'This is a banker's note for five thousand dollars, drawn on the Royal Bank of Ankh-Morpork.'

The lawyer smiled. 'A name to trust,' he said, and added: 'traditionally, at least. Do sign where I've put the crosses, will you?'

He watched carefully as she signed, and she got the impression he was holding his breath.

'There,' she said, pushing the contract across the desk.

'Perhaps you could assuage my curiosity, madam?' he said. 'Since the ink is drying on the lease?'

Miss Dearheart glanced around the room, as if the heavy old bookcases concealed a multitude of ears. 'Can you keep a secret, Mr Blister?'

'Oh, indeed, madam. Indeed!'

She looked around conspiratorially. 'Even so, this should be said quietly,' she hissed.

He nodded hopefully, leaned forward, and for the first time for many years felt a woman's breath in his ear:

'So can I,' she said.

That was nearly three weeks ago…

Some of the things you could learn up a drainpipe at night were surprising. For example, people paid attention to small sounds — the click of a window catch, the clink of a lockpick — more than they did to big sounds, like a brick falling into the street or even (for this was, after all, Ankh-Morpork) a scream.

These were loud sounds which were therefore public sounds, which in turn meant they were everyone's problem and, therefore, not mine. But small sounds were nearby and suggested such things as stealth betrayed, and so were pressing and personal.

Therefore, he tried not to make little noises.