The lamp went out. Wet boots halted among the type-racks; fingertips tapped the iron tray as if they knew where the die rested. Watson held his breath, spine to the wall, hand on the revolver in his coat.
A match flared. In its light a pale face rose—not Reginald's. Ink stained the knuckles; resin clung to the apron. The man froze, voice dry. "I only set type. The gentleman who brought the seal said he would fetch the chain himself before dawn—and the die must not stay here."
Holmes swung the gold chain in his palm. "How did he sign?" From his cuff the compositor drew a work-order: E. Crane—the hand trembling, as if writing its own obituary.
River wind pushed the door again. A second pair of boots, heavier, carried no bergamot—only river mud and cold sweat. A hoarse voice: "Give me back the die. That line—must not see print."
❦ To be continued.
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