The Golden Suspect
The chandelier in the Mint’s banqueting hall swung gently with the clink of crystal against crystal, a soft, metallic rhythm that underscored the hollow laughter of the men in their dark suits. Arthur Vane stood by the punch bowl, his hand resting on the heavy brass rim, watching Director Halloway cross the room. Halloway did not look at him. He never did. To Halloway, Arthur was a function, a...
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