The side door still swung. Holmes dragged Watson into the fog; Holt stayed on the stair with the brass key. On the wet stones two large boot-prints ran toward the Embankment, each step trailing a thin bergamot, like a thread that would not break.
At the corner cab-rank only one empty hansom remained. The driver rubbed his hands. "Tall gent, grey gloves—flung half a crown and was gone. The word was the Savoy side door. Before he climbed in he stuffed the other half of a cigarette-case into the seat-crack, as if afraid someone would make it whole." On the cushion a little ash still glowed, smelling exactly of the citrus left in the box curtain.
Watson felt into the crack: the silver lids closed, and the monogram read complete—J. Reginald. Holmes snapped the halves together and looked toward the river-light in the fog. "The man who paid for Scene Five is not fleeing London—he is returning to a room he booked. The shadow Holt met will show himself tonight at the Savoy."
❦ To be continued.
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