The Manor

Turning to the street, you place your leather briefcase on the path. When you stand tall facing him, you straighten yourself and finally get a look at his face The pale, scarred face of the uniformed man is partially obscured by the shadows of his black custodian helmet. as your eyes meet his. A thick mustache obscures a concerned twist of the lips, but you see it still. He opens his mouth to say something, but instead, turns to tighten the reins against his saddle.

Do you know what's down this road? he asks, pulling taut the reins against the horn. He adjusts his gloves. Preparation.

You cock your head. These memory issues might have just put you in the crosshairs of an irate property owner, some form of local law enforcement, or—let's hope it's not, but—someone who may have procured a uniform using less savory means of acquisition. Talk your way out of this one. Piece everything together, everything you know.

No, you draw out, unsure how much to tell; coming up with a story, right on the spot. But I was hoping to find a local doctor from a message I received.

You bend down to your briefcase, unlocking the straps to pull out your papers. If he is someone to be trusted, it is not only strange enough that an officer of the peace might be hauling carriages, but you would assume an officer of the peace hauling carriages would be doing so for government business, right? Why would he stop? you wonder. You fold over the note, sure to somewhat hide the message typewritten beneath it; you'd rather he saw the name of the doctor than the message, but it's not as if the message is particularly illuminating.

You fidget the note in your hands as you rise to your feet once more.

A doctor, hm? His eyes look over you briefly, sure to never linger anywhere too long. Maybe he is a professional. I can take you into town to see the local doctor, but it might not be the one you're looking for.

What do you do?