The Golden Suspect
The rain fell like iron filings. Silas Vane walked. His boots sank into the mud of the courtyard. The stone was slick. Black. Cold. He carried a box. It was small. Brass. Heavy. Inside the box lay the seal. He was a soldier. No, not a soldier. An officer. A keeper of the gate. The gate to the High Court. The year was 1894. The air smelled of coal smoke and wet wool. The city was a beast of...
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