"Frack!" said Jareth. He hadn't meant to scare the man silly. He'd just wanted to make sure he didn't run away before Jareth got some answers.

Details were difficult to make out in the dark. He wished he could get a clearer look at the other man's face. The little he could see, close as he was, told him he was clean shaven and fair skinned. His body felt hard and lean beneath his own.

Awkwardly, Jareth rolled off his unintentional victim. He hoped he hadn't caused him any real harm.

Any fears were immediately allayed by the young man leaping to his feet and sprinting off down the track as fast as his legs would carry him.

"Frack!" said Jareth, again. He'd been suckered into believing the faint was real, and that didn't happen to him often. He wondered who the stranger was and where he'd come from. He'd been enjoying some alone-time in the forest, resting peacefully on a log before starting the walk back, when he'd heard the stranger approaching.

He'd obviously come for a look at the house. Jareth had watched from the shadows as he studied the walls and the gate, then shared his shock when the dog exploded. The stranger had done him a favour there, he hadn't known about the dog.

Jareth sighed. Lying on the ground wasn't doing him any good. It was always a struggle to stand from a prone position but waiting wouldn't make it any easier. Eventually, he got his good leg under him and managed to stand, grateful that his artificial leg hadn't been damaged by the kick and the fall.

He found his way back to the place he'd been sitting and picked up his cane. Although it wasn't necessary, he found it helpful, especially over rough ground.

By the time he pushed open the door to the World's End, he saw that dinner was being served. Gifford and Fisher were seated together at one table, finishing their food, and he recognised Pedlar at another table on the opposite side of the room. A fourth person sat with him, tucking in to a meal of roast mutton and potatoes, as if he had no other care in the world. His head was down, concentrating on the food, but Jareth had no trouble recognising him, even if the small leaf stuck in the back of his toffee-coloured hair hadn't given him away.

He was the man Jareth had tackled in the forest.

Jareth didn't think the stranger had noticed his arrival. Without hesitating, he strode across the room.

"Sorry for interrupting," he told Pedlar, with a polite smile. "But I'm afraid I owe this young man an apology."

The stranger looked up and began a questioning smile of his own. Almost as if he didn't recognise him. Then—Jareth would have laughed if it didn't happen so often—he froze motionless for a split second, as he took in the other side of Jareth's face. The side with the leather mask and mechanical eye, which had chosen that moment to swivel skyward.

To his credit, the pause was infinitesimal. He put down his knife and fork and held out his hand for Jareth to shake.

"Pol Flynt. How can I help you?" He spoke with just the slightest trace of an accent.

A cool customer, thought Jareth, rapidly revising his earlier opinion, and not as young as he had first thought. Early or mid twenties, perhaps. This was no callow youth, out for an evening dare or to satisfy his curiosity about the Hall.

He looked into the smiling eyes and in that moment, he knew. This was the foreign agent Gamer had speculated might turn up. A rival for the formula.

He returned the smile.

"Jareth Coppersmith. I'm sorry for our... encounter earlier. I hope no harm was done?"

"None at all."

Jareth saw that Pedlar was watching them curiously and decided this was not the time or place for further confrontation.

"I won't interrupt your meal any longer. Perhaps we can talk later?"

"Of course. I look forward to it."

Jareth nodded to Pedlar then made his way across the room to join Gifford and Fisher at their table. He ignored the stares from other patrons as he passed, and sat down.

"I hope I'm not too late for dinner," he said, with a polite smile, as a server hurried to his side. "A pint of ale and the mutton, if you please."

"Who was that?" Gifford asked idly, pushing aside his empty plate.

"He said his name was Pol Flynt," said Jareth. He waited while the server placed the food in front of him, before adding, "I suspect he's here on the same mission as ourselves."

Ursula Fisher gave him a sharp look.

Gifford looked worried for a moment before he relaxed.

"He's too late," he decided. "We have our appointment with Maybury tomorrow." He pushed back his chair and stood. "But do keep an eye on him, won't you." It wasn't a request.

"I intend to," Jareth murmured.

He stayed to eat a leisurely dinner and was aware when Pol Flynt left the room with Pedlar. He wondered what their connection was. Did they know each other prior to this trip? Or was this a recent association?

One thing was certain, Flynt had not been on the train with them yesterday, so either he had arrived on today's Express or else by a different route entirely.

It might be worth having a friendly chat with the garrulous innkeeper.

"Very lucky, he was," said the innkeeper, wiping down the bar. "Sorry, but we're full, I told him. But you could try asking the single gentlemen if they'd be willing to share, I said. Pedlar's always happy to save a few shillings so he tried him first, and he leapt at the idea!"

"How fortunate," murmured Jareth.

He mounted the stairs to his room and checked the tiny traps he had placed to ensure no one entered his room without his knowledge. All were still in place, but he suspected that wouldn't be the case for long, not with Pol Flynt on the premises.

He took out the jewelled snuff box and checked its contents. Two golden scarabs glinted in the gaslight. He supposed, if he were being totally ruthless, he should eliminate Flynt now, tonight. But perhaps that would be premature. After all, they didn't yet know whether the Alchemists' Stone was fact or fiction. He put the box carefully in his pocket.