The Golden Suspect
The rain hammered against the glass of the third-class carriage, blurring the passing landscape into a smear of grey and mud. Arthur Vane sat alone, his knuckles white as he gripped a manila folder that smelled of old paper and stale tobacco. He was thirty-two, though the hollows under his eyes made him look older, a man carved from exhaustion and stubbornness. Inside the folder were the files...
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