The Distant Clue
Thorne, you are late. The voice came from the desk across the room, low and clipped, cutting through the hum of the gas lamps. Elias Thorne straightened his spine, the movement stiff with a decade of foreign habit. He stood in the doorway of the office at Halloway & Sons, a man of forty who felt, then, like a child caught stealing apples. The air in the room was thick, smelling of stale tobacco...
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