It is an autumn night. Outside, the rain lashes the windows with persistent fury and the dank streets are awash. Only a solitary streetlamp pierces the gloom. For hours, Sherlock Holmes has been sitting here, motionless, pondering the intricacies of some arcane markings. And so, the room has become a smoke-enveloped oven, more deadly perhaps than the great Grimpen Mire. So all-pervasive is the tobacco aroma that curls its way round the sitting-room...
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