Neville Schroeder was a fireplug. He stood barely five feet tall, red, shabby, and pedestrian. Professor Connelly towered over him, a giant oak tree of a man with a silk paneled vest, tweed coat and tie, expensive glasses, and a neatly trimmed beard.
“Listen to me,” said the Demon as he placed his hand upon my head. “The region of which I speak is a dreary region in Libya, by the borders of the river Zaire. And there is no quiet there, nor silence.”