Russell raised one eyebrow. "There's a case you can't solve?"
"It's not that it can't be solved."
Charlotte's voice came from ahead, slightly muffled by the wind. "I just don't want to solve it."
She said nothing more and simply kept walking. The hem of her black coat swayed gently with her steps.
Russell watched her retreating figure and suddenly chuckled.
"Why are you laughing?"
Charlotte turned to look at him.
"Nothing."
The two continued weaving through the crowd on Fleet Street, heading toward Oxford Street.
…
Meanwhile, in the interview room, Miles excitedly flipped through his notebook, muttering to himself.
Henry sat behind the desk, slowly sipping his tea.
"Editor-in-chief," Miles looked up, eyes shining.
"Didn't you find that part particularly interesting?"
"When Miss Holmes spoke about Mr. Watson, her expression and tone—"
"Mm."
Henry nodded.
"I'm sure all the readers will love this part!"
Miles continued.
"A genius detective harboring complex feelings toward her assistant while complaining, and yet—"
"Miles."
"?"
Henry set down his teacup and glanced at him.
"The part you just wrote down—the characteristics of Mr. Watson and Miss Holmes's statements."
"The complaining part can be written, but the part where she falls silent, and the final conclusion—that it is essentially a necessary trouble—is also important."
"This sentence is quoted directly without any explanation."
Hearing this, Miles paused for a moment. "Why?" he asked.
"Because…" Henry began slowly, his voice carrying the wisdom of someone who had experienced everything.
"There are some things that lose their meaning the moment they are put into words."
Miles blinked. He seemed to understand, yet not completely.
"Could it be…"
"You'll understand later, kid."
Henry smiled, offering no further explanation, merely giving his shoulder a light pat.
He said, "Now go write the article. With this much material, you should be able to write a wonderful report."
"Yes, Editor-in-chief!"
Miles asked no further questions and nodded excitedly before dashing out of the office with his notebook.
Henry watched his cheerful figure recede, then turned his gaze to the clear sky outside the window and couldn't help but chuckle.
"Youth really is wonderful."
…
Sunday.
Morstan Residence.
The girl slowly awoke from sleep.
After quickly washing her face and getting ready, Mary sat at the dining table on time.
"Good morning, Father."
As usual, she greeted the man seated across the table.
It was completely unrelated—merely a daily routine.
"Mm."
Arthur Morstan responded with a light nod.
Breakfast began quietly.
Mary stared at the lavish dishes in front of her, but for some reason had suddenly lost her appetite.
A standard English breakfast was arranged on silver platters, each item placed in its designated spot with perfect precision, as though measured with a ruler.
Mary picked up her knife and fork, cut a small piece of fried egg, and put it in her mouth.
The egg was cooked to perfection, the heat just right. The bacon was toasted until crispy, and the sausage had a firm yet elastic texture.
They were all her favorite flavors.
Everything had been prepared according to her usual standards.
But today, she tasted nothing at all.
The girl silently swallowed the food in her mouth, then cut off another small piece, and another.
She ate very slowly, chewing each bite carefully, as though completing a task she had to do.
Arthur Morstan sat across the long table, flipping through The Times in his hand.
The rustling sound of turning pages echoed. He occasionally picked up the tea beside him, took a sip, then set it down again.
Father and daughter ate breakfast separately, separated by the long table, silence, and something deeper and invisible.
"By the way,"
When Mary had finished about half her meal, a man's voice suddenly came from across the table.
She stopped what she was doing and looked up at her father.
"What is it, Father?"
Arthur Morstan looked at her and spoke in a flat tone.
"Where did you go last Saturday?"
Mary's fingers, gripping the knife and fork, tightened almost imperceptibly.
The girl's mind went into chaos, but she quickly regained her composure.
"Father, I went to the Phaidon Tearoom."
She spoke frankly, hiding nothing.
This man would never ask such a question without reason. And the fact that he asked meant he must have brought some kind of answer.
"Phaidon Tearoom…" Arthur hesitated slightly. "With whom?"
"Russell Watson."
When he finished speaking, an eerie silence enveloped the surroundings.
Arthur Morstan did not speak immediately, nor did he show any expression of anger or disappointment.
He first picked up his coffee, took a sip, then slowly and carefully asked.
"Do you remember what I told you before—to have nothing more to do with him?"
"Yes..."
"Then why did you go to the Phaidon Tearoom with him last Saturday?"
Arthur Morstan looked at Mary.
Hearing this, Mary slightly pursed her lips, looked at the man, then turned her gaze to the newspaper in his hand.
His hand covered the newspaper's headline, making it impossible to read the article's contents.
Mary recalled what Russell had told her.
She took a deep breath and said,
"I'm sorry… Father."
The girl apologized first, then continued before the man could open his mouth.
"At that time… I actually listened to what you said and wanted to distance myself from him."
She looked troubled.
"But… Russell Watson is a little… difficult to handle."
"He invited me to the Phaidon Tearoom. I planned to have a proper talk with him there and tell him to stop bothering me."
"Couldn't you have refused?"
"Actually… I refused several times, but he kept making all kinds of excuses."
"In the end, I had no choice but to agree to meet him and clear up the misunderstanding."
She spoke in a natural tone, her voice carrying a hint of helplessness, as though she were truly confiding in her father.
After listening, Arthur Morstan was silent for a while, then nodded.
"I see…" he said. "There are people who lack manners and don't know when to stop, so I can't blame you."
He paused, then kept his gaze on the newspaper for a moment before asking.
"Did you explain it to him properly?"
Hearing this, Mary immediately went on alert.
She recalled the man's expression and tone, then considered how to respond next.
Finally, the girl slowly opened her mouth and gave an ambiguous answer.
"I did say it, but I said it quite indirectly… I can't guarantee whether he understood."
"So…"
Arthur Morstan set down the newspaper in his hand.
"If he doesn't understand, then he should give up."
The man's tone was much gentler than before, even carrying a subtle change.
"Some people need more direct methods of communication."
He picked up his coffee cup and began speaking slowly and clearly.
"Mary, you haven't done anything wrong."
Mary deliberately pretended not to understand and looked at her father.
"Father… what do you mean?"
"I mean," Arthur set down his coffee cup.
"He's difficult to handle and wants to get close to you, so…"
The man lowered his voice slightly.
"Then why not give him a chance?"