Mary's expression wavered slightly.
She kept her eyes lowered, showing no emotional fluctuation to her father.
"But… Father…"
The girl spoke quietly, with just the right amount of hesitation.
"You said before that he was merely a passing phase, an obstacle."
"That was before," Arthur interrupted her. "It was true then, but not now."
Arthur Morstan stood up as he spoke and walked to the window, turning his back to Mary as he gazed at the sunlit garden.
"Mary, understand this," the man's voice came from the front, carrying a faint seriousness.
"The most worthless thing in this world is what we call face."
"The person I look down on today might become someone I want to please and ally with tomorrow."
"The stone I trample on today might become a foundation so high I can never reach it tomorrow."
He said this, then turned to look at Mary.
"Therefore, one must learn the ability to assess situations and adapt one's position at the appropriate time."
The man directed his gaze at the girl, as if confirming whether she truly understood what he was saying.
"I told you before—he's not worthy of you, so it's better not to get close to him."
"But now I'm giving you a chance. Because he has begun to act in a way that deserves it."
These two are not contradictory.
Mary listened quietly. Her face still wore its usual obedient and docile expression.
"He now possesses fame, connections, and qualifications equal to yours. But that alone is not enough."
Arthur Morstan said.
"He lacks a platform that can truly turn those intangible assets into something valuable."
"And our Morstan family can provide him with that opportunity."
He spoke as though granting a great favor.
"Just like before, you can become friends with him, chat, invite him to your home, go to salons together."
"Give him a small reward, make him see hope in you, make him focus only on you."
"Treat him with respect while maintaining appropriate distance—neither too distant nor too intimate."
"He possesses talent and potential, but lacks experience. With your appearance and abilities, controlling him wouldn't be difficult, but you should start early."
"Show him the world, help him build connections, make other nobles associate him with the Morstan family, and make him feel indebted to us."
"Think of this as the first step in cultivating a capable subordinate for the future."
He mentioned it casually, as though it were already a predetermined path.
For an instant, the light in the girl's eyes dimmed.
But when she raised her head again, her eyes held just the right amount of submissive color.
"I understand, Father."
She spoke quietly.
"I'm glad you understand."
The man nodded with satisfaction and sat back down at the table.
"Then judge for yourself. Make sure the people of the Morstan family aren't seen as opportunists and arrogant."
"Yes, Father."
Breakfast ended quietly.
Mary set down her knife and fork, gently wiped her mouth with a napkin, stood up, and gave her father a slight bow.
"Well then, Father, I'll return to my room now."
"Mm."
The man answered without looking up.
The girl turned and left the dining room, walking slowly back to her own room.
Only after the door closed did the tall, straight figure gradually collapse.
The once-gentle light in her eyes seemed to have lost all warmth at this moment.
Just then, a knock sounded on the door behind her.
Light returned to the girl's eyes. She turned and opened the door.
The maid, Mel, stood at the threshold holding a letter.
"Miss, there's a letter for you."
Hearing this, Mary reached out, took the letter, closed the door, and sat at her desk.
She tore open the somewhat crude and cheap envelope, took out the letter inside, and turned her eyes to its contents.
There was finally a response to the news she had requested a few days earlier.
Neither Bermondsey nor Rotherhithe had found any trace of the target, but the target seemed to have been active in the Woolwich area for a certain period—neither too long nor too short.
In recent days, Scotland Yard seemed to have changed direction. It was the search for a certain woman.
"I asked the cigarette sellers, but no one knew who Scotland Yard was looking for.
If you know anything, please tell me."
Mary's fingertips gently traced the letter. A thoughtful expression appeared in her eyes.
"Charlotte has found a new direction, and our side isn't completely without leads either."
"Billson had been active in the Woolwich area for a relatively long period."
"If nothing unexpected happened, he had stayed at Emily Collins's apartment for a while, but not for very long."
But that place was such a perfect hiding spot—why did Billson leave without hiding there?
Perhaps he felt it was no longer safe. For example, Scotland Yard officers or assassins he had sent had discovered Billson.
Or perhaps he had found an even safer place and no longer needed to hide in Woolwich.
Which possibility was more likely?
The girl pondered.
Within the Southwark district, where could he find a new safe residence?
Bermondsey?
The most chaotic, dirty, and crowded slum.
If one simply wanted to hide, it would indeed be a good choice.
A maze of alleys, countless cheap apartments, and a population density of about 100 people per acre.
There, everyone only cared about where to get their next meal. No one cared whether there was a stranger next to them.
No matter how desperately Scotland Yard officers searched, thoroughly combing that area would probably be impossible.
But that was merely a cover.
Billson alone would be fine, but he had Emily Collins with him.
Just because Billson could accept living in such a place didn't mean Emily Collins could.
She might be infatuated with love, but that didn't mean she should lower her standards this much.
Billson still needed her, so naturally he couldn't ignore her feelings.
He couldn't restrain Emily Collins or harm her. If he did, she would be disillusioned with him.
Otherwise, Emily Collins would have to die.
Her death would make it difficult for Billson to maintain contact with the outside world, and he would likely become involved in even greater trouble.
She was like Billson's limbs, but at the same time, an inseparable malignant tumor in Billson's body.
Therefore, Bermondsey could be excluded, and Rotherhithe likewise.
If these two locations were excluded, where did that leave?
Only Woolwich and Southwark remained.
Woolwich was unlikely. Billson had fled from there and would never return.
That left Southwark.
The wealthiest area in the entire Southwark district…
Mary furrowed her brows.
The moment the thought surfaced, she dismissed it.
Did he have the right to hide in that place?
It wasn't Bermondsey or Woolwich, nor was it a slum where one could rent a dilapidated house for very little money.
The streets were orderly, the apartments proper, and uniformed police officers occasionally patrolled.
Landlords there wouldn't ignore tenants' identities, and neighbors would care about who was moving in.
A wanted criminal with a record of murder and robbery like Billson—unless he possessed some ability to make himself invisible, it would have been impossible for him to hide unnoticed in such a place.
Moreover, even assuming he really was hiding in Southwark, where exactly would he find a hiding place?
Hotels there required registration, unlike areas like Bermondsey where one could stay as long as one had money.
Besides, he didn't have much money.
Mary pondered deeply, her fingertips lightly tapping the table.
After eliminating all impossible things, no matter how unbelievable, whatever remains must be the truth.
Did Billson truly possess some special means that allowed him to safely hide in Southwark?
Or perhaps he had an absolutely secure hideout in Southwark that even Scotland Yard couldn't detect.
But if such a place really existed, would he have needed to go to such lengths—paying the price of killing Hannigan—just to find it?
Mary furrowed her brows.
Unless these two events were not parallel, but causally linked.
The girl's thoughts raced busily, trying to process all the information at hand. That report connected everything.
After a while, she raised her head. Understanding shone in her blue eyes.
Without hesitation, Mary walked to the table, took out paper, picked up a pen, and began writing.
She wrote quickly and concisely.
There were no additional instructions or commands—only a single address.
An address that heralded the beginning of death.
…
…
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