It was the first piece of evidence in this case, for 2 months Basil had been just as clueless as Mouseland Yard. But at long last he had something. And he held it in his hand. The ever elusive Flying Bandit had left a clue; Basil rolled his eyes at the thought of the name. The people in the newspaper were starting to lose their touch with naming jewel thieves. The nickname was hardly imaginative, but he had to admit it fit the description witnesses had given of the thief very well.

The Thief always made dramatic escapes, no matter how impossible they seemed, somehow he managed them. He was like the Houdini of scumbags. Not a single shred of evidence was left behind, until now that is. Scrunching his nose in frustration, the Great Mouse Detective turned the clue over in his hands. What he held was clump of black bloody fur. According to the museum guard, a stray bullet from his gun had grazed the Bandit's arm. Despite the injury, the Bandit carried on by taking out the guard and tying him up, and removing all traces of blood from the scene, and just as before, disappeared with yet another gem. However, he had left something behind on the curtains.

Mouseland Yard took no notice of the evidence that Basil held, those morons had not one lick of perception. How they kept their jobs in law enforcement was beyond him. Stowing the bloodied fur into the pocket of his coat, Basil left the crime scene intent on studying it closely within the sanctity of his lab.

The crime had not happened to far away from Baker Street, so Basil decided not to call Toby or to jump on a cab. It wasn't that long of a walk, and besides he could keep an eye out for any clues as to where the perp. had disappeared to, The Bandit may be some sort of Houdini, but like any magician the magic was always the slight of the hand, a trick on the eyes.

A heavy mist fell upon London in the later afternoon. Accompanying it was a thick woolen blanket of darkness. It was as if the lights of all that could be assumed holy had been doused. Shadows of wickedness slowly began to overtake the city. And coming with the shades, along the dark sidewalks a small cloaked figure hurried through the darkness as it darted up, around and through the feet of late night human dwellers. The small creature jumped onto the sole of a man's shoe. Gripping tight to the laces, it held on as the human made his way down the street. For the most part, this was an easy way to travel quickly through the streets of London, granted not the safest. A small mammal always ran the risk of being seen or crushed underfoot. But it was the most practical for those who could not afford to grab a cab.

Seeing the desired stop, the figure dismounted from the shoe and rolled, softening the impact of the jump. Leaping to stand, the figure ran out of the way of the humans. Making it to the corner of a large dark alley, it removed the hood of its coat. The coal black face of a young female mus musculus; more commonly known as a house mouse, was revealed.

Her eyes were wide with caution; they also seemed to be laced with pain. As if on cue, she flinched and clutched at her left arm. Slowly, she relinquished her grip and eyed her palm. It shone with a light coating of blood. It wasn't that bad of wound, she had been lucky the bullet merely grazed her. At least she had gotten what she wanted from that little escapade; the thought caused the mouse to smile with satisfaction. Digging her clean hand into the pocket of her coat, her fingers entrapped a fist sized ruby.

Reassured that the gem was there, the mouse pulled away from the wall of the alley; straightened her jacket and made her way down the lane. Her sights set on an entrance, where a hanging board read "Burby's Trinkets."

The sign on the door labeled the shop as close, but the young mouse paid the sign no mind. A single smart rap on the door awakened the owner, who was not to happy with the late night disturbance. The door was opened a crack. A gruff voice, heavy with a British accent spoke from inside "Sign say's we're closed."

Smirking, the mouse leaned down to where she knew Burby stood. Her voice was laced with a hint of a British accent as well as an undertone of German. "I'm sure you can make an exception for me Mr. Burby."

There was short pause, and then the door was thrown open. The mouse smirked and looked down at the bespectacled mole, who hardly seemed pleased at seeing his late night visitor. "Amsel, what the blazes are you doing here?"

Rolling her eyes, the mouse invited herself inside. Throwing herself onto an old couch, which was high priced despite the obvious wear and tear. "I have a ruby for you to cut and sell. And as always I expect payment for my troubles, a 55% cut from the profits you make."

The mole shuffled slipper adorned feet, this mouse always made him nervous. She wasn't dangerous, and he knew she would never truly hurt him, or his family. But it was never wise to trust a criminal. More so when said criminal was making headlines. He stared at the Amsel. "B-b-but that's 5% more then what you normally ask for."

Amsel sat up, her hand digging through the pockets of her coat. "I need more money Algie, as for why, well, that is simply none of your affair."

Finding what she wanted, Amsel tossed the ruby to Burby. The mole caught it, and pulled out his jeweler's loupe. His eyes widened behind his spectacles. Diverting his attention to the young thief he questioned. "Where did you…umm…?"

The mole could not finish his sentence; it was as if saying 'steal' would damn him straight to hell. Shaking her head, Amsel stood. Placing her hand on the mole's shoulder she answered the unfinished question. "I acquired it through illegal means, as for where I got it, well, you'll find at in tomorrow's headlines."

Algie stared into the mouse's large gray eyes. They seemed to be laughing on the outside, but at moments like these, the mole swore that he say a twinge of desperation in them. Amsel relinquished her hold on the elderly mole. Making her way toward the door, she called over her shoulder. "I'll be back in a few days to check you're progress on the ruby. And I'll collect my share in a month's time."

As if sensing the mole's worry, Amsel looked back at him, her long tail twitched back and forth. "Fear not Mr. Burby, it'll all be over soon, and you and I can go back to our normal lives, until then; cheerio."

That said Amsel disappeared into the night, leaving Algie Burby to stare at the ruby in his hands. She always spoke like that, talking about everything being over soon. The mouse never explained why she stole, and every time she talked of such things, she never directed the reassuring words to the mole. It was as if the words were meant for her and not him.

Rubbing a thumb over the glistening red gem, Burby locked the door to his shop, and took his candle upstairs, eager to go back to bed with his wife. After depositing the stolen ruby in his safe box, the mole retired from his shop, and made the trek upstairs; all the while, Cecilia Amsel's words of comfort echoing in his head. "It'll all be over soon."