Sherlock rounded the corner and stumbled to a halt. There was nobody in sight. His eyes pierced the shadows and swept every stone as his flashlight traced the length of the alley, only to find a silent dead end, and the crushingly heavy realisation of another failed pursuit. As he heaved in gulps of air, he noticed a small piece of paper lying on a cobble. Trembling with familiar dread, he bent down and held it up to the meagre beam of light dribbling out of a weary old street lamp. PERMISSION TO ATTEND, it read, in neatly printed black letters, infuriatingly identical to the other three notes.
Sherlock crumpled the paper with an angry fist. Once again, the suspect had given him the slip.
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