Tarvek's quick mind analyzed the situation in an instant. He'd been caught. The man had made him angry on purpose to get him to come to him. That was... fairly clever, actually. It certainly entitled him to a moment of his time. Still he hesitated. But here, he had no reputation to ruin. No father to find out. He drew in a deep breath and settled on the stool beside him, careful of the tail of his coat. He didn't want wrinkles, after all.
He took the glass and surreptitiously checked it for poisons with his chemical kit; he was skilled at slight of hand, so the man would never notice. And a lifetime in Sturmhalten taught you not to drink something handed to you by a stranger. Not that Herr Jones had any reason to wish him dead. But his paranoia had kept him alive for twenty-one years, so he saw no reason to stop.
"So, you believe me?" he murmured. He spoke very good English, with only a faint hint of his Romanian accent seeping through.