The Shadow of Great Britain

334: Chapter 208: Intelligence Bureau Welfare House (4K8)_2 334: Chapter 208: Intelligence Bureau Welfare House (4K8)_2 “Actually, it’s not a big deal.

I just think you should know where your wife’s private correspondence with Melbourne is kept, right?

Perhaps you can even pick and choose, and if you can find a few explosive contents, that would be even better,” the Home Secretary lured the wife of another man, “The randy ram is right there on the desk of the Home Office,” I’ve even drafted the headlines for Fleet Street.

George, how does that sound to you?”

Clang, the sound of glasses clinking.

“Bernie, I knew I could trust you.”

“George, what are you saying?

To risk life and limb for a brother is my life’s motto.

After finishing this drink, I’ll go see Earl Eldon and ask if he can help cover up the arrest warrant issue for you.

Just wait here for good news.

Oh, by the way, I must remind you one last time, you and I are the only ones who should know the details of this case.

No one else can know now.”

“Bernie, do you still not trust an authentic gentleman who graduated from Oxford?

I have been rigorously trained.”

“Indeed, everyone says that Oxford is the best in Britain, and Balliol College is the cream of Oxford.

How else could they produce an outstanding person like you?”

“Hahaha, Bernie, no wonder you made it from an ordinary perfumer to what you are now, with that glib tongue of yours, you could sell garbage at the price of gold.”

Rustle, rustle, rustle…

In the office of Scotland Yard, there was a phonograph, and Arthur lay back in his chair, legs propped on the desk, his face covered by a bowler hat, hiding any expression beneath the shadow.

Across from him, in a chair, sat a tense Wheatstone, trembling from head to toe, not daring to breathe a word.

It wasn’t until then that Mr.

Wheatstone began to regret.

My God!

Why did I covet the power of Sir Isaac Newton, when just being Charles Wheatstone would have been good enough?

At least Charles Wheatstone had a large house in Regency Crescent and enough of a phonograph industry to live on.

But if one were Newton, without Sir Newton’s means of dealing with people, even a safe landing could be a problem.

As Wheatstone was internally battling and considering backing out, Arthur, who had been silent, suddenly slapped the stop button on the recorder next to him.

“Very good, very good.

I thought there was some major background here, but it turns out it’s just two small shrimps causing troubles behind the scenes.

I used to think that usurpation and acting alone were traditions of an East Asian island nation; now it seems that here in the west, Britain is also keen on this game.

Thinking about it, it’s not so strange to have an early rehearsal a hundred years in advance, considering both are islands and have early development.”

Seeing Arthur speak, Wheatstone hurriedly stood up and said, “Mr.

Hastings, you’ve got what you wanted, I have other things to attend to, so I shall take my leave.”

Just as he was about to turn and head for the door, he heard a familiar slap from behind him as if something had hit the desk.

Wheatstone closed his eyes, let out a long sigh to the sky; there was no helping it, he was all too familiar with this routine, almost as if he had developed an immunity to it.

Without turning around, Wheatstone took three steps backward and then sat back down in the chair.

“I say, Arthur, that’s quite enough, always with the weapons, you’re a law officer, you should be civilized.”

Arthur twirled the gun with one finger looped through the trigger guard as he spoke, “Charles, what are you afraid of, there are no bullets in here.”

“No bullets?

You could have said that earlier!”

Wheatstone stood up to leave.

But in the breath of a moment, Arthur swiftly pulled open a drawer, loaded bullets and gunpowder in one smooth motion, followed by the click of the safety being engaged.

Arthur pointed to the revolvings pistol in front of him and said, with a mild smile, “As you can see, there are now.”

Wheatstone’s eyes twitched, and he finally succumbed to Arthur’s lewd power.

His eyes glinted with sorrowful light, “Arthur, can’t we just be friends normally?”

“I’d like to be friends with you normally, but Charles, you’re a bit too special,” Arthur said.

“You only listen to me when I have a gun out.

Any other time, you’re thinking about how you can run away from me.”

“That’s because you scare the hell out of me!”

When Arthur heard this, he just shook his finger, “No, Charles, you know I’m now doing intelligence investigation work.

And based on my life experience and my exchanges with Mr.

Francois Vidocq, a leading authority in the Paris Police Intelligence Department, I’ve come to a conclusion.

There are four ways to manage the staff at the Police Intelligence Department, which I summarize as MICE, and right now, the only one that applies to you is C.”

“MICE?

What does that mean?”

To the man sitting in front of him, now the chief scientific consultant to the London Police Intelligence Bureau with significant current and future implications, Arthur did not want to avoid the question.

He explained, “MICE is actually an acronym for four words: M for Money, people who can be bought with money, women, or other interests.

Ideology, driven by noble ideals.

C for Compromise, those who can be coerced.

And E for Ego, those who think they are better than others and seek thrills by tackling difficult challenges.”