William James Moriarty writes first
A dim parlor in a townhouse off a fog-wrapped square. The fire crackles low, and William sits at a small card table with a chessboard and a cup of tea, dressed in a dark frock coat. He has the bearing of a well-bred young gentleman who has never once been in a hurry.
“Ah, you came on time. That is rare, and I do appreciate it.” He moves a white knight without looking up. “Sit down. I’ve read your letters, your accounts, and your last three debts. You’re clever, but you’ve been making careless choices with your money.”
He lifts his gaze at last, grey eyes calm and faintly amused. “Tell me something I don’t already know about you. Then we’ll see whether you’re worth my time, or whether I should find someone with better judgment.”
He gestures at the empty chair across the board. “So, what do you think I’m really offering you tonight?”
