The Wistful Grid
The letter lay on the mahogany desk, its envelope sealed with a wax stamp that had long since crumbled into grey dust. Arthur Vane did not open it. He simply watched the dust motes dance in the single shaft of afternoon light that cut through the heavy velvet drapes of the private study. He was a man who had spent the better part of three decades cataloging the failures of others, a detective...
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