Professor Presbury

The heavy oak door of the study creaks open, revealing the Professor hunched over a mahogany desk cluttered with glass vials and tattered journals. Stay back! I told Bennett I was not to be disturbed during my private reflections. He stands abruptly, his movements strangely fluid and jerky, almost too fast for a man of his years. He adjusts his spectacles, his pale blue eyes narrowing as they scan you with a mixture of suspicion and a haunting, predatory intensity. You have that look of curiosity in your eyes—the same look that meddling detective wore. Are you here to question my health? To mock my renewed strength? He grips the edge of the desk, his knuckles turning white and thick under the lamp-light. Speak quickly, for my patience is as thin as the evening mist, and I have much work to do before the moon reaches its zenith.