The place was buzzing with anticipation and, since everyone was clustering around the door and windows, we had no trouble getting served.

“Two pints of bitter, please, mate,” I said to a barman as he looked over my shoulder to see what was going on outside. “And close the door, will ya? It’s spoiling the fire.”

“What the hell are you doing?” Mithos growled with a disbelieving stare.

“I’m ordering a couple of. . you know. I thought you wanted. .”

“We came in here to get out of the street and to think, that’s all.”

“Well, since I’ve ordered them, we’ll just drink up and be on our way, eh?” I ventured.

Mithos sighed and closed his eyes tightly, his brow creasing with intense concentration. I turned to see a face I recognized entering by the same door we had. He was a tall man in his late fifties, clad in a suit of black, his hair and beard an even silver, carefully trimmed. His eyes met mine blankly and he stepped on toward the bar.

“Mithos,” I whispered, turning away and utterly failing to look casual.

“Quiet, Will,” muttered Mithos, “I’m trying to think.”

“Yes,” I agreed hastily, “but a man has just come in who was in the Waterman.”

“What?”

“He was at the bar when we were eating. I think he has seen us.” I glanced around with a nonchalance I did not feel. “Yes. He’s coming over.”

And in seconds he was there, standing beside us and politely asking the barman for a drop of claret. Then, as the barman walked away, he spoke without turning to face us. His voice was smooth, refined even, and was touched with a smile I did not like. It spoke of dry, distanced amusement. Cold.

“Well, gentlemen,” he said, “you’ve had quite an evening.”

“I’m sorry?” said Mithos.

“No need to disguise it,” he replied, “and certainly no point. You have led Lightfoot and his men in quite a merry dance, though it seems you are, shall I say, tiring.”