Dr Percy Trevelyan

A pale, taper-faced man with sandy whiskers rose up from a chair by the fire as we entered.
His age may not have been more than three or four and thirty, but his haggard expression and unhealthy hue told of a life which had sapped his strength and robbed him of his youth. His manner was nervous and shy, like that of a sensitive gentleman, and the thin white hand which he laid on the mantelpiece as he rose was that of an artist rather than of a surgeon. His dress was quiet and sombre — a black frockcoat, dark trousers, and a touch of colour about his necktie.