Evening, Kensington district, Morstan Estate.
Unlike the nonstop work of the previous days, Mary had finished her meeting early today and returned to the mansion around 5 PM.
In the warm, comfortable living room on the second floor, the burning fireplace cast a warm orange-red glow. From the phonograph came music Russell didn't recognize—somewhat obscure, a pleasant yet melancholic piano melody that drowned out the howling wind outside.
Russell sat deeply in a comfortable armchair, holding a freshly brewed cup of Darjeeling tea. Beside him, the girl had changed out of her long dress into soft, homely clothes. Her striking pale-yellow hair was unbound, flowing like silk over her back and shoulders.
Instead of taking her own sofa, she naturally kicked off her indoor slippers, bent her knees slightly, leaned in, and forcibly squeezed herself onto Russell's large sofa.
"..."
The girl let out a sigh of relief and put most of her weight against Russell's arm. She took the teacup he had just drunk from and sipped a little from the exact spot his lips had touched.
"Today's schedule seems to have gone smoothly?"
Russell lightly wrapped one arm around her slender waist while casually stroking her long hair with the other hand. The faint scent of white camellia drifted from it, and his tone carried a languid gentleness.
"'Smoothly'?"
Mary swallowed the warm, fragrant tea and rolled her eyes in irritation.
"That's not necessarily true. At this afternoon's board meeting, my proposal was once again mercilessly rejected by my Uncle Adrian."
She tilted her head slightly; a hint of dissatisfaction showed on her fair, soft face.
"Not only did he vote against it—he colluded with the old director like Howard to bypass me and directly negotiate with Scotland Yard through a specialized liquidation team, trying to forcibly seize control of the South Bank mess."
"As expected."
Russell raised one eyebrow.
"Old-timers who've held power for half their lives aren't going to hand over South Bank control just because Benson defected. As long as they refuse to compromise, your position remains untenable."
"Yes."
Mary leaned her head against Russell's shoulder, rubbing her cheek against the dark-gray suit fabric.
"As long as he refuses to yield, even if Lestrade keeps the entire South Bank warehouses sealed until they're covered in mold, I still can't legally send in management."
She paused, then extended her slender fingers and slowly traced circles on Russell's muscular chest.
"Besides, Uncle Benson's sudden defection has obviously stirred up their suspicions. Uncle Adrian must have already noticed that I secretly hired you—and that you've got Uncle Benson's fatal weakness in your grasp. So their defenses are far tighter than before."
Russell saw through the girl in his arms immediately; she was clearly plotting something.
"Adrian's base is in London's financial district—the wealthy area where the financial capitalists gather. If he already suspects I'm secretly working for you, he's not only reinforced the mansion's security but has probably moved important documents or set traps, just waiting for me to walk into them."
"Is the phantom thief scared?"
Mary suddenly sat up and wrapped her arms around Russell's neck. Her bright emerald-green eyes sparkled in the fireplace light. The distance between them had shrunk to an extremely intimate level; their breaths mingled in the cold air.
"Scared?"
Russell gave a scornful snort, the laugh carrying the arrogance of a phantom thief.
"Even if he hides inside Buckingham Palace, I'm confident I can expose his secrets. Even if he burns every ledger in a fire, I still have ways to obtain new ones. If he were truly scared, he wouldn't even qualify to win the lottery."
"I knew you could do it."
Mary smiled.
"But I can guess what he's thinking."
"What's he thinking?"
Russell raised an eyebrow.
"This afternoon he didn't fear me at all—in fact he showed even more hostility, acting as if he planned to fight me to the bitter end and was satisfied with the outcome," Mary explained while analyzing Adrian's psychology. "Suppose he knows I have you as my trump card and that Benson was threatened. In that situation, instead of trying to compromise with me, he decided to flip the board. His goal was to force me to play my final card."
As she spoke, her gaze stayed fixed on Russell.
"In other words, he wants me to send you to steal his weaknesses."
"Never heard of such a request in my life."
Russell shrugged.
"Does he really think setting a trap in his own house will let him catch me red-handed?"
"I don't think his goal was to stake out and arrest you," the girl said.
"He probably thinks, 'If she can bribe you, why can't I?' As a capitalist who's spent most of his life buying people's loyalty with benefits, he must be desperately calculating how to buy you away from me at twice the price."
A mocking, pitying light flickered in the girl's eyes.
"That's nothing but wishful thinking."
"Like writing a blank check."
Russell sighed.
"You absolutely won't agree, right?"
Mary looked up at him.
"I can't say for sure."
Russell grinned mischievously. He reached out and gently stroked Mary's plump, soft lower lip with his finger.
"What if he offers a price I can't refuse?"
"You can't."
Mary suddenly bit down on Russell's teasing fingertip. Her emerald-green eyes were filled with unreasonable trust and possessiveness. The slightly cold canine teeth lightly grazed the fingertip before reluctantly releasing it.
"Whatever he can give you, I can give you too. And what I can give you—"
She leaned forward slightly and, without hesitation, pressed her tea-moistened red lips against Russell's. "That old man can never give, I can give it to you."
…
Midnight in London.
Adrian Morstan's Victorian detached house stood quietly like a fortress in the shadow of the financial district. Inside and outside the courtyard, three teams of heavily armed retired soldiers patrolled with hunting dogs. Even a bird flying overhead would draw wary glances.
Meanwhile, in the heavily guarded study on the second floor, Adrian was still awake. Dressed in a black suit, he poured Macallan whiskey over ice into a glass and sat behind the large mahogany desk that symbolized power.
In the center of the desk lay an open checkbook, a gold ink pen, and a newly written bearer check worth thirty thousand pounds. The flickering light from the fireplace cast dancing shadows across the old fox's wrinkled face.
He occasionally glanced up at the pendulum clock on the wall. His cloudy eyes held extreme tension, vigilance, and unconcealed enthusiasm and expectation.
"Come on, Moriarty… hurry up…"
Adrian muttered to himself, unconsciously tracing the edge of the thirty-thousand-pound check with his finger.
He didn't believe there existed a cat in this world that wouldn't steal fish—let alone a thief who could do whatever he pleased in London being driven around by a little girl.
When it came to money, the figures here were far beyond what Mary Morstan could ever afford. For privileges, he could have offered Moriarty perfect protection in both the political and economic spheres.
As long as that phantom thief showed up, he was confident he could turn the sharp blade hanging over his own head and thrust it straight into that blonde girl's heart!
For anyone, this was an irresistible reason.
It was unclear how much time had passed, but Adrian's patience was beginning to reach its limit from the long wait.
Ring—
Suddenly, without warning, a very faint cold wind blew through the tightly closed study.
The brass gas lamp on the desk flickered violently, casting Adrian's distorted, eerie shadow on the wall.
The old fox's heart skipped a beat. His intuition, honed by years in high positions, instantly raised every hair on his body. He instinctively reached for the loaded gun in the drawer.
"Bringing a gun to partnership negotiations—is this the corporate culture of the Morstan family?"
From deep within the study, where the light didn't reach, a low, languid voice suddenly echoed.
Adrian's hand froze in mid-air.
He snapped his head up, his gaze seeming to pierce the darkness and see through the hidden truth beneath.
Under his stare, a figure in black clothes wearing a white mask slowly walked out with calm, elegant steps.
"Good evening, Mr. Adrian."
He gave a slight, extremely polite bow like a perfect gentleman.
"Why aren't you resting at this late hour? Are you waiting for someone? And why are you still in a suit?"
As Russell spoke, he pulled up a chair and sat down elegantly with his legs crossed, as though he were the master of the study.
This entire incident had not triggered any warning from the thirty guards outside. The state-of-the-art security alarms on the doors and windows had not activated. Even the dogs with the sharpest senses of smell had not barked once.
He had appeared in the study like a silent ghost.
"Mo… Moriarty…"
Adrian stared at the phantom thief in front of him in disbelief. After a moment of shock, he forcibly suppressed his fear, slowly withdrew his hand from the drawer, and forced an ugly, hypocritical smile onto his face.
"As the rumors say, your appearance was splendid. I've been waiting for you a long time, Mr. Phantom Thief."
"Huh? Waiting for me?"
The phantom thief's voice rose slightly with curiosity.
He leaned forward, his gaze sweeping over the attractive banknote and checkbook on the desk.
"Judging from the heavily armed guards outside the mansion, you don't seem to be welcoming visitors. Rather, it looks like you're on guard against an enemy you want to kill."
"For a distinguished guest like you, ordinary security is not merely a precaution—it's also an opportunity to test your abilities."
Adrian tried to regain control of the conversation, placing both hands on the table and clasping them.
"This level of vigilance is not worth mentioning to you at all. If you can't even clear this, it only means I expected too much from you. I'm very pleased you didn't disappoint me, Mr. Moriarty."
"Test?"
Russell seemed amused by the remark.
"If your test was simply to see how many snow crystals would stick to the soles of my boots, then I must say your test was a resounding success."
Adrian's eyes twitched. This merciless sarcasm felt like a slap across the old man's face, but he could only swallow his anger.
"Does the fact that Mr. Moriarty came and sat before me prove my efforts weren't in vain? At least the long wait was worth it."
He looked up and stared fixedly at the pale mask.
"Since you went to so much trouble, I'll reluctantly hear you out."
Russell spoke mercifully and swept his gaze across the entire desk.
"A thirty-thousand-pound bearer check—quite a sum. And this checkbook… is it waiting for me to fill in the numbers myself?"
Seeing the phantom thief clearly interested in the exchange bill, Adrian felt as though a weight had been lifted from his shoulders.
If someone is greedy for money, things go smoothly.
A cunning smile full of experience and confidence spread across his wrinkled face. He picked up the glass of Macallan whiskey and took a calculated sip.
"This thirty thousand pounds is merely a small gift, Mr. Moriarty."
He set the glass down, leaned forward slightly, and stared fixedly at Russell.
"I don't know what that little girl Mary promised you, but I can roughly imagine. It's nothing more than waiting for her to solidify her position as head of the family, then transferring some shares to you—or directly using Morstan family funds to support you. But you're a smart person, so you should understand that a young woman who hasn't even graduated from university cannot possibly control such a vast business empire. Her current arrogance is exactly like walking a tightrope. If she falls, Scotland Yard, the Home Office, and the capitalists she's angered will all retaliate like mad dogs. At that time, do you think you can escape unscathed in front of that despicable knife she holds?"
"Yeah, yeah."
Russell didn't answer, merely responding casually to show he was listening.
"But I'm different."
Adrian sat deeply in his chair with an arrogant posture.
"I've been active in London's financial district for forty years and have connections in both politics and business, in both clean and dirty fields. I could even say I was Arthur Morstan's mentor, but unfortunately I never expected his daughter to be so ungrateful. If you're willing to abandon that ridiculous fee contract with that young woman, not only can you receive the thirty thousand pounds immediately, but I can guarantee that in London—no one will interfere with you as long as you don't touch Buckingham Palace."
Adrian paused, then continued.
"Of course, if you also return that idiot Benson's ledgers… I can add another five thousand pounds. How about it?"
The study fell silent.
Russell relaxed back into the chair, surveying the entire room.
"Thirty-five thousand pounds plus immunity from prosecution in London…"
A languid voice came from beneath the mask. He picked up the thirty-thousand-pound check and examined it carefully in the dim gas-lamp light, as though appraising a work of art.
"That sounds like an offer I can't refuse. Even a cabinet minister would succumb to the temptation if they came here. Honestly, even I would find it hard to find a reason to refuse. After all, who refuses money?"
A satisfied smile instantly spread across Adrian's lips.
"The legendary omnipotent phantom thief seems to be an extremely reasonable businessman after all. Rest assured, this is merely a deposit. After that woman retires, Morstan Enterprises will transfer a portion of its profits to your account every year."
"But I refuse—"
The moment Russell finished speaking, he casually tossed the bill he held between his fingers onto the burning brass gas lamp beside the desk.
Adrian was greatly startled.
Ring—
Orange flames instantly licked and consumed the thirty-thousand-pound piece of paper.
"Are you insane?! What are you doing?!"
Adrian suddenly leapt up from his chair, staring in disbelief at the exchange bill rapidly curling and turning to ash in the flames, his pupils shaking violently.
"What I like most is saying 'NO' to arrogant people."
Russell said mockingly to Adrian.
Buckingham Palace? Business world? Political world? Underworld?
He looked at the old man's pale face and gave a contemptuous smile.
"Don't make me laugh, old man. Haven't you read the newspaper?"
Russell retorted, "Just a few months ago I stole a snuffbox from Buckingham Palace. Do I still look weird now?"
"You…"
Adrian was momentarily speechless. He truly hadn't known about that.
"And what do you mean, 'no one will interfere with me'?"
Russell asked.
"If I don't cause them any trouble, they should be kneeling and thanking me. How dare they deliberately come looking for trouble? Do they think The Times' performance is too bad, or too good?"
"You… you… and what about Mary Morstan? What benefits did she promise you?"
Adrian's old face had turned a deep liver color from intense anger and humiliation.
In his entire life he had never seen a madman who would burn thirty thousand pounds that were within reach—and a trump card to escape prison—like garbage.
"Are you risking your life for a little girl? What do you think she can give you? The sweet gifts she's giving you now will turn into deadly poison the moment she falls from power! Do you think she can establish a foothold in the Morstan family—or become a new dictator—with just your help? Why do you always try to find reasons for other people's whims?"
Russell sighed helplessly.
"Can't I just do it because I'm interested?"
"Nonsense! It's purely a matter of interests!"
Adrian cursed.
"It just so happened that Benson Morstan was targeted, it just so happened that a large quantity of weapons was transported to the Morstan South Bank warehouse, and it just so happened that it reached Scotland Yard?!"
He glared at Russell and slammed his fist on the table.
"How can you say that? Wasn't it that little girl Mary Morstan pulling the strings behind the scenes?! Who's really behind this?!"
Russell brushed the dust from his hands, crossed his legs in an extremely relaxed posture, and looked at the furious Adrian with a mocking gaze, as if watching a circus clown perform.
"Sometimes things just happen. Why Benson Morstan and Philip Morstan…? "
He paused for a moment, then shrugged helplessly. His voice, heard through the mask, carried an arrogance and nonchalance completely divorced from worldly logic.
"Maybe they were just unlucky… isn't that reason enough?"
"You… this reckless bastard…"
Adrian trembled with rage. He jumped up from his chair and tried to pull out the alarm hidden under the table.
However, Russell simply sat there, watching his movements and the alarm—yet nothing happened.
Silence enveloped the surroundings.
"Looks like something's on strike?"
Russell said lightly, then slowly stood up.
"Stop right there!"
Adrian grabbed the pistol from the drawer and pointed the black muzzle at Russell.
"Do you still think you can escape?"
"It's useless, Mr. Adrian. You can't stop me. And I don't like having a gun pointed at me—but since you're an old man, I'll let it slide this time. Anyway, thank you. Thanks to you, my night isn't boring anymore."
The moment he uttered those words, a cold wind blew again.
Bang!
The heavy, intricately carved wooden window—which had been firmly closed—suddenly flew open without warning.
A biting wind carrying snow and ice instantly swept through the entire study, extinguishing the flame of the brass gas lamp.
"Damn it!"
Adrian cursed, threw away the pistol, searched for matches, and with trembling hands relit the gas lamp.
However, when the light returned and the flickering flame illuminated the room, there was nothing left in the study except himself and the unswept remnants of the thirty thousand pounds.
The devil with the white mask had completely melted into London's freezing winter night, just as he had appeared.
Bang!
Just then, the hidden door on the side of the study leading to the secret room was pushed open slightly—ever so slightly.
A middle-aged man wearing round glasses emerged from inside, clutching a shorthand notebook and carbon pen tightly, looking uneasy.
Anyone who frequently visited downtown newspaper offices would immediately recognize him as the top paparazzi of London's notorious tabloid, earning his living by exposing scandals involving powerful people and the wealthy.
"Did you write everything down?"
Adrian suddenly turned around, fixing a sharp gaze on the reporter before him.
This was his two-pronged approach.
If the bribe succeeded, everyone would be happy.
If it failed, he planned to use the paparazzi he had hired at great expense to capture the scene where Moriarty admitted to a business partnership with Mary Morstan.
If it could be turned into a sufficiently sensational article, the shining image of the family's new head would collapse completely by tomorrow morning.
Success or failure—there would always be a way.
However, when Adrian asked, the paparazzi showed a puzzled expression.
"This..."
The top paparazzi wiped the cold sweat from his forehead, glanced awkwardly at the messy symbols in the shorthand notebook, and swallowed hard.
"Mr. Adrian… unfortunately, we have a big problem."
"Problem? What do you mean? What happened to what I asked you to write down?!"
Adrian snatched the shorthand notebook from his hand.
"Why didn't you write anything down?! I didn't pay you just to listen to the conversation!"
Adrian glared at him.
"He… he didn't admit anything at all."
The paparazzi explained cautiously but excitedly, though his tone carried helplessness and an unknown fear toward the unidentified thief.
"Please recall the previous conversation. Throughout the entire process, Moriarty never once made any statement admitting an employment relationship with Miss Mary Morstan."
Adrian was dumbfounded. Recalling the exchange, his face instantly turned ugly, as if he had swallowed a fly.
"Yes, you kept throwing bait to probe, but the only thing he admitted was rejecting your thirty thousand pounds…"
The paparazzi sighed and analyzed with high professional ethics.
"If you were to write a report based only on this extremely ambiguous conversation composed of your one-sided questions, you wouldn't obtain any concrete evidence to bring down Miss Mary, who had just built a perfect image. On the contrary, if competitors or The Guardian use this as negotiation material, they might even accuse you of fabricating a conspiracy to seize power."
"Why don't you just make it up yourself?!"
Adrian shouted at him.
Hearing this, the paparazzi also became angry.
"That's Moriarty! If he had actually said that, fine—but he didn't utter a single word. Even if it's true, what does it matter?! He didn't say that if you can't present evidence then the matter is a lie. Just because I wrote it down doesn't mean it's a rumor! Go to Fleet Street and check whether anyone is spreading rumors about Moriarty."
Adrian's face turned deathly pale. He slammed the shorthand notebook he held onto the ground, breathing heavily like an enraged lion.
"This bastard!"
The paparazzi quickly bent down to pick up the notebook, then looked at the boss. The boss looked as though he were about to have a heart attack.
The other party was the one paying him, and considering the old man's age, it would be bad if he died from shock. So he paused for a moment before comforting the old man.
"But there's a bright side, Mr. Adrian. At least tonight we haven't suffered a big loss, right? The phantom thief only came to warn you—he didn't even steal a single button. Considering that Mr. Benson's top-tier safe was completely ransacked, you're incredibly lucky."
"Not only did they not accept it…"
Adrian suddenly seemed to realize something and froze on the spot, as if a bucket of ice water had been poured over his head.
In an instant, an extremely ominous and chilling premonition wrapped around Adrian's no-longer-young heart like a venomous snake.
His gaze, as if drawn by a magnet, quickly turned to the mahogany bookshelf behind the desk.
"No… it can't be… he was standing right in front of me the whole time…"
Adrian's voice began to tremble. He staggered toward the bookshelf, pushed aside several thick Britannica encyclopedias, and revealed the complex brass dial lock behind them.
He took a deep breath, touched the cold dial with trembling fingers, and skillfully turned the keypad while panting.
But he immediately realized it was unnecessary.
The rotating wheel was accurately pointing to the numbers contained in the password.
Adrian's heart had already gone cold.
He reached out to pull the heavy handle, but it felt strangely light.
The safe door opened in his unbelievable gaze, like pushing open a rotten wooden door.
Inside the safe, bundles of pound notes and bearer gold coins were neatly arranged on the lower shelf.
However, at this moment, to Adrian's eyes the safe looked no different from empty—because the truly terrifying thing was gone.
In its place remained only a mocking white card.
"How can this be possible…"
Adrian collapsed to the ground, his pupils shaking violently.
When exactly?
That phantom thief—hadn't he been sitting right in front of me the whole time?
When exactly was the item stolen?
A ridiculous thought suddenly flashed through Adrian's mind.
Perhaps… this wasn't the first time he had been here. Or perhaps he had only come a few hours ago.
At that time I wasn't in the study—I was being bathed and dressed by the servants. All so I could appear in the most formal attire to persuade that damned man.
The entire process took only about thirty minutes.
For an ordinary thief, thirty minutes is obviously not enough.
But for him, thirty minutes was more than enough to turn the entire mansion upside down.
"He's been deceiving me… he's been deceiving me from the very beginning!"
"Ah, Mr. Adrian…"
The paparazzi holding the shorthand notebook looked at the old man collapsed on the ground. He swallowed hard and unconsciously took two steps back toward the hidden door.
"If… if there's nothing else, I'll head back now. I won't charge a fee for tonight. Please… please be careful."
As a veteran who had spent many years in Fleet Street, he possessed very sharp intuition for creating advantageous situations and avoiding disadvantages.
Even a powerful figure like Adrian Morstan had been manipulated to the point of losing the strength to resist. If an insignificant paparazzi like him got involved in this commotion, he would undoubtedly become one of the nameless corpses floating in the Thames tomorrow morning.
Before Adrian could open his mouth, the paparazzi disappeared from the study like a gust of wind.
In the spacious study, Adrian was completely alone.
The cold wind carrying snow and ice was still howling outside the window.
He looked at the ashes of the banknote scattered on the ground, then at the pure white card in his hand.
His once straight back hunched over in that instant, as if he had aged ten years in a single moment.
From a distance, he looked like a defeated dog.