Holmes seized Watson's sleeve and ran along the second-tier corridor. The brass key still burned in his palm. At the corner Holt stood flat against the wall, white-faced, his boot-tips trembling.
"I just collided with a tall man," he panted. "Grey gloves, bergamot on the cuff—he burst from the left-hand box as if afraid to be seen." On the floor lay half a silver cigarette-case. Inside the lid a monogram was cut: J.R. The hinge was still warm.
The key-teeth bit the lock. The box was empty; the cushion still held heat. Ash on the sill had not yet cooled, and the same citrus clung in the curtain. Holmes slipped the case into his coat. "The man who paid has a name," he said low. "Holt—you did not meet a stranger. You met the shadow he had not yet time to hide." Below, a side door slammed and fog rolled in, as if someone had just slipped into the night.
❦ To be continued.
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