The man hums skeptically. "Aren't you a bit joyless to be frequenting disreputable clubs, my steadfast Mr. Ralston?" He arranges his face into a look that's somewhere between pained and constipated, an apparent imitation of the grim young traitor. "And besides - the imitation of virtues, at times, leads to their practice. Perhaps the hope is that you'll develop some filial piety."

(Whoever this man is, he may well be as adept as Ralston himself at making enemies, though by very different mechanisms.)

"My name's Byerly Rutyer." A droll little smile; Ralston knows full well that's not the man's real name. But at least it's a handle.

Then a flick of his fingers produces a lighter. It's tossed to Ralston - tossed towards the side holding his cane, so that Ralston will likely either have to release his prop or fumble it. That may or may not be an act of deliberate cruelty. Rutyer doesn't exactly give off an impression of nimble athleticism.