At dawn, the great detective climbs the stairs to his rooms, his step uncharacteristically leaden due to the fatigue and frustration of hours spent searching for a black butterfly that had paused for a few moments almost within his grasp before disappearing into the night, gone like a spirit -- but his sister is no spirit, confound everything; she is a mere skinny broomstick of a girl, unequipped with wings, and could not possibly have actually flown away from the stony face of London; wherever could she have got to? Why could he not find her?

Head and shoulders bowed under the weight of his failure, he enters his lodging and closes the door behind him.

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