[When Heroic Spirits are involved, no situation can be truly labeled "ordinary." Holmes, who had whipped out his pipe while Sanson spoke, fidgets with a pinch of tobacco. He doesn't face the executioner but the faraway look in his eyes indicates that he's listening. He deftly stuffs the tobacco in, then lights the pipe. Blue smoke fills the air around him.]

The trail is ripe. [He says so with great relish, as if tasting an exquisite dish.] A pair of dirt-caked shoes, a man who was killed without a struggle, a quick yet inexperienced murderer. Yes, this has all the makings of a good hunt!

[Holmes claps his hands together.]

Tell me now, doctor. Was this man a magus?