Mibs was getting tired now. The scrolls of parchment scattered across his candle lit desk bore witness to another sleepless night of scholarship and elucidation.
"The work must get done," thought Mibs, and he began to scratch away again with his quill.
The old oaken door creaked open, and Mibs' housekeeper, old Mrs Yardley crept in, smelling of floor polish and lavender water, and carrying Mibs' usual supper of strong cheese and hot milk.
She set down the tray, and lit another stub of candle.
Mibs sat there in the meagre glow, his long white hair falling about his shoulders, and the pigeon droppings on his old jacket seemed to dance in the flickering light, like some macabre sequins from a festival in Bedlam.
"There's some people here to see you," said the housekeeper, "A Mr. Theland, a Chinese lady, and a lush wearing a red dress, who looks like she's going to fall down and break that bottle she's carrying."
"My students have arrived," said Mibs, in flawless German, which was the one bloody language that old Mrs Yardley did not speak. Mibs could be so annoying at times.