The girl was looking at him specifically, he realized. Eyes meeting for a moment might have been a passing glance, but she was holding contact. She nodded. Why the hell was she nodding at him? She was trying to communicate something to him. Was it possible she was supposed to meet him here and give him some information for where to meet the actual letter writer? It was far-fetched and melodramatic. A young girl sitting in the pub would attract just as much attention as a woman sitting alone, and far more than if she'd chosen to meet him at a party. Unless it was someone outright notorious. Elfrieda Yaxley—? but there was no reason for her to have written now, no reason to ask him any of the questions she had, no reason to conceal her name.

He walked to the table and took the seat across from her, decisively.

"This isn't worth the trouble you'll get in for doing it," he pronounced.

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