The quickening of his pulse is involuntary, and he ignores it. Though the impulse to scrape after a second cigarette— He doesn't turn his head to follow. The itch it puts under his collar, he decides, is inevitable. May as well feel it. Instead, he fixates on the dog headed handle of the cane, twisting it absently in hand so that the light plays of it. If he looks very hard, he can see a uselessly obscure smear of Rutyer reflected in it.

"I find a strange man here in the apartments of my last liaison, and no sign of her. He's dressed like you are, and talks like you do, and is more or less has seemingly been designed to placate me. You could be anyone," he says. "Why on earth would I tell you the full truth before I was certain?"