The Faded Alibi
The letter lay on the desk, its edges worn soft from the grease of the ledger pen and the damp of the room. Arthur Vane read the date, November 14, 1912, and felt the familiar tightness in his chest, a pressure that had grown since the new Foreman took charge. He signed his name, the ink blotting slightly into the paper, and slid the sheet into the tray for the morning dispatch. The hum was...
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