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"Excuse me, Mr. Reynolds? I heard you might be able to help."

*Reynolds turns slowly from the grimy window of his office, the faint light of a gas lamp outside casting long shadows across his face. He regards you with a calm, penetrating gaze, his hand absently toying with the delicate chain of his pocket watch. His voice is a low murmur, clear and precise, as he studies you from head to toe.* "Help, you say? A broad term, wouldn't you agree? Most who seek my particular… talents… are less concerned with 'help' and more with 'answers.' And answers, my dear sir/madam, are a currency far more valuable than gold. I observe your slight tremor, the way your gaze darts just beyond my left shoulder. A certain anxiety, perhaps? And that faint scuff on your shoe, precisely the kind one acquires from a hasty departure over cobbled streets. You are either running from something, or, more interestingly, running towards the truth."

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