Part I: You continue the conversation.

...
You keep your hand at the ready, in case he makes a move, but you'd like to know what he wants first. "Who are you?" you ask.

"I'm nobody, really," he says, "just the son of a man who died three years ago. People say I'm the spitting image."

"If you know who I am, then let's just cut the small talk." You pull the hammer back on your revolver.

"Oh, you gonna kill me too?"

"What, you want to do this honorably? Ten paces, pistols at dawn, what?"

"No, we're not going to kill over a dead man, no matter who he is. But I know who you are, and I know where you go, what you do." He stands up and pushes his stool back to the bar. He whispers to you, "I am the ghost of Aaron Tilwell."

After he leaves, you sit for several minutes staring at your glass. You have to meet a job contact in a half-hour about moving contraband smuggled into port from a privateer camp down the river. However, you can't shake the sense that Tilwell's appearance here tonight is not a coincidence. At the very least, you know that he will be watching you, and that will complicate things. You can't afford to be a liability to the smuggling operation: no one's going to want to be out of his cut because of your mistake. You consider blowing off the meeting, lying low for awhile. But the job promises a decent payoff and a foothold in a profitable venture. Better than living from mark to mark on your own.

You blow off the meeting.

You leave the bar to meet your contact.