Moist had worked hard at his profession and considered himself pretty good at it but, if he had been wearing his hat, he would have taken it off right now. He was in the presence of a master. He could feel it in the hand, see it in that one commanding eye. Were things otherwise, he would have humbly begged to be taken on as an apprentice, scrub the man's floors, cook his food, just to sit at the feet of greatness and learn how to do the three card trick using whole banks. If Moist was any judge, any judge at all, the man in front of him was the biggest fraud he'd ever met. And he advertised it. That was... style. The pirate curls, the eyepatch, even the damn parrot. Twelve and a half per cent, for heavens' sake, didn't anyone spot that? He told them what he was, and they laughed and loved him for it. It was breathtaking. If Moist von Lipwig had been a career killer, it would have been like meeting a man who'd devised a way to destroy civilizations.

All this came in an instant, in one bolt of understanding, in the glint of an eye. But something ran in front of it as fast as a little fish ahead of a shark.

Gilt was shocked , not surprised. That tiny moment was barely measurable on any clock but just for an instant the world had gone wrong for Reacher Gilt. That moment had been wiped out so competently that all that remained of it was Moist's certainty that it had happened, but the certainty was rigid.

He was loath to let go of the hand in case there was a flash that might broil him alive. After all, he had recognized the nature of Gilt, so the man must certainly have spotted him.

‘Thank you, Mr Gilt,' he said.

‘I gather you were kind enough to carry some of our messages today,' Gilt rumbled.

‘It was a pleasure, sir. If ever you need our help, you only have to ask.'

‘Hmm,' said Gilt. ‘But the least I can do is buy you dinner, Postmaster. The bill will come to my table. Choose whatever you wish. And now, if you will excuse me, I must attend to my... other guests.'

He bowed to the simmering Miss Dearheart and walked back.

‘The management would like to thank you for not killing the guests,' said Moist, sitting down. ‘Now we should—'

He stopped, and stared.

Miss Dearheart, who had been saving up to hiss at him, took one look at his face and hesitated.

‘Are you ill?' she said.

‘They're... burning,' said Moist, his eyes widening.

‘Ye gods, you've gone white!'

‘The writing... they're screaming... I can smell burning!'

‘Someone over there is having crepes,' said Miss Dearheart. ‘It's just—' She stopped, and sniffed. ‘It smells like paper , though...'

People looked round as Moist's chair crashed backwards.

‘The Post Office is on fire! I know it is!' he shouted, and turned and ran.

Miss Dearheart caught up just as he was in the hall, where one of Gilt's bodyguards had grabbed him. She tapped the man on the shoulder and, as he turned to push her away, stamped down heavily. While he screamed she dragged the bewildered Moist away.

‘Water... we've got to get water,' he groaned. ‘They're burning! They're all burning!'