Simon makes a soft, acquiescent noise. He's hardly in a position to argue, regardless of how much he might want to. He has nothing to offer here other than himself--

There's a thought.

Simon slips a hand into one of the inner pockets of his jacket, withdrawing a small business card. It simply says The Saint, with a small drawing a haloed stick figure, a jaunty and almost mocking little doodle.

"Should you ever have a need my particular skills can fulfill, I'm at your service, Dr. Goodsir."