Tristan smelled him before he saw him. The orange velvet suit was equally nauseating. But it was clearly a gentleman's suit. This had to be Mr. Meijer himself, not breathing his last, Tristan concluded petulantly. He could have been at home, sulking on his own.

But there was something intriguing to his alienist sensitivities about this sullen gentleman who could afford neither maid nor words. He followed when beckoned, taking off his hat, and then carrying it into the parlour with him when he realized there was no servant to take it from him. There had been a broken chair in the hallway. Was that the cause of this man's ailment? He didn't look injured.

When he set his hat and bag down on the table, his eyes landed on the very news page that had rattled him that morning. He glanced at the garish suit, then walked back to the parlour door and closed it. Then he turned back to the gentleman, lifted his chin slightly and rested his hands behind his back. "How may I help you, Mr. Meijer?"