The Pale Protocol
The letter arrived on a Tuesday, when the fog in London was so thick it seemed to possess a physical weight, pressing against the windows of the small office in Whitechapel until the glass bowed inward under the gray exhale of the city. Arthur Penhaligon did not open it immediately; he placed it on the desk beside the cold cup of tea that had grown a skin of oil, and he looked instead at the...
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