The Spadina Apartments were in a nicer building than the Shuter block, though nicer was a relative term. We were shown up to Sebastian Moran’s room immediately, and the landlady was kind enough to unlock the door for us. “Not sure if he’s home right now,” she whispered in the hall. “I’ll leave you boys to it, eh?” and crept back downstairs, quiet as a dormouse.

It didn’t immediately appear as if the man were home. Murdoch threw open the ratty curtains separating the bed chamber from the rest of the suite, but found it empty. On a side table in the main living space we found a recently stubbed cigar, and the window on the lee side of the building stood open to the chill autumn air.

“He must have left by the fire escape,” Murdoch observed, peering down at the street below.

“Detective,” Sherlock called. A nigh-empty safety deposit bank box lay open under the table. It’s only contents a scrap of paper.

Circle the letter N.