The Wistful Witness
"Arthur." The name hung in the air of the dining room, heavy and damp, spoken by the head waiter, a man whose apron was starched so stiff it seemed to have its own skeletal structure. Arthur Vane turned from the window, where he had been watching the fog roll off the river, and wiped his hands on a handkerchief that was already dark with sweat. The banquet table was set for twelve, though only...
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