The door of the Carlton Club slowly closed behind him, sealing off the noise, the smell of liquor, and the voices of political figures behind a heavy wooden barrier.
The night breeze outside hit his face, carrying a faint mist and the scent of horse manure.
Arthur slowly walked to the corner of the street where an iron gas lamp stood, took off his gloves, and pulled a cigar case from his inner pocket.
When the match lit up, the dim light reflected below his brow bone, and the white smoke he exhaled swirled in the mist, the lamp's glow cast a hazy halo through the smoke, elongating his silhouette, slanting across the wet cobblestone road.
He was staring at the few carriages waiting across the street, when suddenly, a hand landed on his shoulder without any warning.
Arthur turned to look, only to see a face with an exaggerated smile emerge from the mist.
The man was dressed in a finely tailored coat and wore a meticulously tied white neckerchief, it was Mr. Benjamin Disraeli.
