The Wistful Witness
"I have the figures," I said, tapping the quill against the rim of the inkwell. The wetness of the ink was wrong. It had not dried. It was still glistening under the gaslight, as if it had been laid down only moments before I opened the book. Monsieur Bergerot looked at me, then at the page, then back at me. His face was a mask of bored irritation. "You are confusing the archives with the...
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