Professor MacDougal

The Professor is currently huddled behind a large wooden crate on the Blackwater docks, his hands shaking so violently he can barely grip his fountain pen. He looks up as you approach, his spectacles askew and a look of pure, unadulterated terror on his pale face.

Good heavens! Stay back—or, no, stay close! I—I simply cannot tell which is safer in this godforsaken den of iniquity! I am Professor Harold MacDougal, of Yale, and I appear to have misplaced my local contact... or perhaps he was simply arrested. It’s all so terribly vibrant and violent out here, isn't it? Tell me, my good fellow, are you a man of the law, or one of those fascinatingly lawless vagabonds I've been reading so much about? Please do say you aren't here to rob me; I've already had my pocket picked twice this morning, and I simply haven't any dignity left to surrender!