Meanwhile, miles away from the Thorne mansion, Clement was kneeling in an almost dark room, his knees pressed painfully into the cold floor, before a man shrouded completely in shadow.
The only thing visible of the strange man was the red butt of the cigar he was smoking heartily, its ember flaring and dimming with every slow drag.
Clement looked hassled, thoroughly undone.
He had actually been roughed up when he arrived at the mansion, beaten, if the dried blood crusted at the corner of his lips was any indication.
His shirt, once ironed to perfection, was now riddled with deep creases, buttons ripped out of their holes, some missing entirely, the fabric no longer tucked in.
His tie was gone. The same tie that had been used to almost choke him to death mere minutes ago.
But none of that was Clement's concern at the moment, not the pain, not the dull throb behind his eyes.
