"Why do you think I was looking for him?" Mary neither admitted nor denied it, responding instead with another question.
"It was your gaze," Charlotte replied, swirling the drink in her glass. Under the chandelier's glow, the golden liquid glittered. "Since you entered, you've scanned the entrance 37 times—on average, once every minute. You spend about 0.8 seconds looking at other people, but stare at the door for over three seconds every time. In other words, you're waiting for a latecomer."
Charlotte spoke slowly, took a few bites of a cookie, and continued, "And of all the freshmen invited here tonight, only Russell Watson didn't receive an invitation and has a valid reason not to attend."
After a pause, Charlotte added, "Of course, that's only my deduction."
"And from a non-logical viewpoint?" Mary asked.
"Well, he also told me so himself once, just in plain words," Charlotte shrugged.
"Tch." Mary clicked her tongue in annoyance, frowning.
"By the way," Charlotte looked Mary over, picking up the slight changes in her expression, and spoke once more.
"What is it?" Mary turned.
"He's expecting to dance with you."
"..."
…
Meanwhile, on Hyde Street...
[Mary Morstan is dissatisfied with your endless chatter. Her hostility towards you has increased by 10 points.]
Russell listened to the system alert in his head, feeling a storm of mixed emotions.
What did I do this time? Hostility points rising is good, but... surely there's a better way?
Never mind—finish up quickly, then get to the party. Hopefully I'm not too late.
He took a deep breath. The cool night air filled his lungs, clearing his swirling thoughts. He donned the white mask with the eerie grin, straightened his collar, and checked his appearance. The night was a thief's best disguise.
Moriarty—it's showtime.
The night air on Hyde Street was uncharacteristically brisk and still, the fallen leaves twirling in the wind. Russell pulled his hat's brim low and vaulted over the ornate but practically useless wrought-iron fence of the Roy mansion, his figure melting into the darkness.
Light as a cat, he landed soundlessly on the manicured lawn. He pulled a grappling hook gun from his pocket, aimed at the terrace on the second floor, and fired quietly.
Thunk—the hook rattled through the bars of the terrace rail, embedding itself in the stone wall behind.
Fluidly, Russell used the rope to pull himself up to the second story. In the moonlight, the terrace was deserted. He retrieved the hook and crept toward the shadowy doorway leading inside.
He didn't rush. Instead, he pressed an ear to the door and listened closely for sounds inside.
Ethan Roy and his wife were still in the ground floor living room. He could hear faint telephone chatter and the occasional laugh from the old man. On the second floor, he picked up the sound of footsteps—more than one set. Mansion security.
Russell waited until the guards' footsteps receded, then quietly opened the door just a crack, keeping a careful watch through the gap at the guards' movements.
He mentally mapped the mansion's layout, noting every pattern and rotation. The setup was more elaborate than he'd anticipated. Inside, Roy looked calm, but was actually much more cautious than people imagined.
Two guards patrolled the hallway in steady, well-practiced circuits, covering almost every corner—there was virtually nowhere unobserved.
Well, almost nowhere.
Russell's eyes tracked the long shadows cast by the guards' lanterns, and a bold idea occurred to him.
There would only be one chance.
Russell crouched, body low, tracking the guards' rhythms until they were back-to-back, and then slipped out the door. He didn't hide in the shadows—too obvious, too likely to be seen.
Instead, he moved into the riskiest but safest place: directly in the guards' own shadows.
He matched his pace and breathing to theirs, following just inches behind, hidden by their bulky forms. Like a ghost, like an extra shadow under the lights.
One of the guards felt a chill on his neck and instinctively turned, but there was nothing behind him—just his partner nervously continuing down the corridor.
Russell kept tailing in perfect sync until, at the next corridor junction, the guards stopped, nodded to each other, and peeled off in separate directions—changing shifts. The instant they parted and their line of sight broke, Russell vanished from the guard's shadow like smoke, tiptoeing down the left corridor toward the study.
Operation, officially begun.
The study was locked by an old-fashioned cross lock, but with Dexterity [C+], it took Russell less than ten seconds to pick.
Click—barely audible, as the door swung open. A mix of cigar smoke and the musty odor of old books wafted toward him.
Inside, the system map in Russell's mind highlighted a red dot for high-value items—behind a bookshelf.
He stepped over, feeling along the spines for the least conspicuous volume, switched it with another from his bag, and tapped one spine twice. Hollow.
He switched the books. At the instant he inserted the replacement, a mechanical whir sounded.
…