You decide to give chase to the figure outside. You throw open the door, dash down the cobbled steps, and scan the area for the mysterious stranger. There! You see the figure dart around the otherwise empty streetcorner. You run after him, rounding the corner of Linhope and onto Taunton Place. You see the figure quickly clamber into a carriage. He’s getting away! You accelerate your pace, but in vain. The figure has already boarded his ride and begun to drive off. Just as you begin to follow the carriage on foot, you hear a voice behind you, calling your name: Mr. Parks is telling you to stop. Reluctantly, you obey. Together, you walk back to the office, and even though Mr. Parks seems chipper, disappointment weighs heavy on your shoulders.

As you approach the office, you notice out-of-place, muddy footprints facing the window and running down the street– you can only assume they belong to the mysterious stranger. 

“Parks! Look at this!” You stoop down to examine the prints. Mr. Parks joins you in a squatting position in the middle of the street. You imagine the two of you look quite strange to any onlookers, but you hardly care as Mr. Parks exclaims, “By Jove! It can’t be that simple!”

“What’s simple, Parks?”

“Discovering the identity of that stranger. Look,” he points, “at the unique design of these prints! Only a nobleman, or someone as rich as a nobleman, could afford custom shoes like this. Whoever this man is, he can easily be identified just by the soles of his shoes!” Mr. Parks lets out a barking laugh as he stands.

“Come along,” he says, clapping his hands, “we’ve more pressing matters to attend to at the moment.” You shake your head as you both go inside.

As the two of you enter the study, Mr. Parks takes his seat behind his desk once more.

“Why didn’t you let me continue my pursuit of him?” You ask, knowing that there must be a good reason, or else Parks wouldn’t have done it.

Mr. Parks only laughs, “My friend, think of the danger you could’ve gotten yourself into by following him! He could’ve had a group with him, and they could’ve attacked you, abducted you, any number of things, really. Even alone, he might’ve shot you, and without your Webley Bulldog, you would’ve been defenseless.” Parks withdraws a paper and pen from his desk, then says, “What did you observe about the vandal?” 

You sigh. Parks always made inarguable points in any disagreement. After a pause – both to recollect your memories and give Parks enough time to begin writing – you begin to describe the stranger.

“He looked to be a 200-pound male, six-foot-two; I’ll say around 35 years old. Broad shoulders, large fists, and from what I could see of his hair, it was blonde. He wore a gray coat and trousers, with a matching top hat. The carriage he entered was a Brougham, but I couldn’t see the driver.”

“Excellent! That should be all we need to discover his identity. I shall send this to the chief of police to tell him to keep an eye out for this suspicious individual.” Mr. Parks folds his paper, glances at his pocket watch, and suddenly jumps up.

“Look at the time! I’ve almost forgotten – I’m to send a reply to Lady Blackthorne, and soon. I shall return, my friend.” Parks once again steps from behind his desk – at this point, you’ve lost track of how many times this has happened – and equips his coat, hat, and cane. Before he leaves, however, he turns to you.

“As soon as I reply, I’m going to leave for the train station. Meet me there in an hour.” He steps out the door and is gone. 

Little more than an hour later, you and Mr. Parks are sitting in a booth on a train that’s headed towards Blackthorne Manor. As you sit across from each other, you realize that Mr. Parks neglected to tell you about what he found upstairs, after the incident earlier that day.

“Parks, you never did tell me what was thrown through the upstairs window.”

“Ah, yes, well that’s because it was of minimal importance.” Parks sits with his head resting on the cushion behind him and his eyes closed.

“So what was it?” Parks chuckles at your impatience.

“My friend, as I said, it was a trivial matter.” Even though Parks dodges the question, you aren’t apt to drop it any time soon.

When you arrive at the station, you and Mr. Parks are met by an aging, angular gentleman.

“You must be the detective,” he says, shaking Parks’s hand.

“Indeed. You are Mr. Ackerson, I presume?” 

“Yes, sir. I’m Lady Blackthorne’s groundskeeper, as well as her coachmen when needed.” He leads the two of you to a coach that, you notice, is not the same one that the stranger boarded earlier. It’s well made on the inside, but you see Mr. Parks flick his eyes to the bottom corner of the black, velvet seat cushion. As soon as the door closes and Mr. Ackerson has started off, you and Mr. Parks lean over to examine whatever had drawn Mr. Parks’ eye.

A small line of stitching, with thin thread the same color as the seats, stretches a length about the size of your smallest finger. The fabric around the stitches is slightly stretched out, meaning that this place has been unsewn and sewn back a handful of times already. You and Mr. Parks share a look.

“Well?” he says. “Aren’t you going to cut it open?”

You hesitate, knowing that if you cut open the seam, you won’t be able to resew it– you left your travel sewing kit at home, much to your chagrin– but it seems as though there is something hidden inside the cushion. It’s a most suspicious hiding place to be sure, and yet almost entirely inconspicuous. Any ordinary person would’ve overlooked it. You draw out your small pocket knife, but hesitate once again to cut the thread. Should you do it, and risk suspicion? Or leave it, and its secrets, untouched?

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