The Shadow of Great Britain

After that, he didn’t spare them so much as a glance, just walked straight to the duty desk. ”Has Sir Arthur arrived yet?”

The duty officer wore the expression of a man who’d seen a ghost that morning. He shot to his feet, standing at attention. ”Reporting, sir! Sir Arthur hasn’t arrived yet.”

Ledley’s jaw tightened another notch, as if he were about to lose his temper; but he worried that an outburst at this moment might be mistaken for some sort of grievance against Arthur, so he swallowed it back down. ”I’ll go have some breakfast first. When Sir Arthur arrives, send someone to my office to inform me.”

When Ledley finished speaking, he turned and headed for the door.

His stride was as swift as ever, carrying an air of ”whoever gets in my way is in for it.”

And to be fair, at this hour in Scotland Yard, there weren’t many people who’d dare to stop him.

Lewis didn’t see it that way, though. Like a cat catching the scent of fish, he slid over with a soft whoosh.

”Mr. Jin... Mr. Jin!” He hastily snatched off his hat and extended an invitation to Ledley. ”What a coincidence, we... we were just about to go for breakfast ourselves!”

Blackwell had meant to maintain some semblance of a Foreign Office gentleman’s composure, but Lewis still half-pushed, half-pulled him a step forward.

Ledley stopped.

He tilted his head, giving Lewis a once-over with a subtly impatient expression that said, ”Why am I being waylaid by a stranger?”

But when he saw Blackwell standing beside Lewis, and recognized this Foreign Office man, Ledley held himself in check.

”And you are?” Ledley’s tone was cool, though not quite rude—no more than a perfunctory inquiry.

Lewis immediately straightened his back. ”David Lewis, sir! I also have an appointment with Sir Arthur today.”

That ”appointment” was deliberately vague, and that was exactly the effect Lewis wanted.

It didn’t quite count as lying; it was a One Penny Journalist’s forte—misdirection.

He wanted people to think he belonged to some secret circle around Sir Arthur Hastings.

Ledley clearly picked up on that word ”appointment.”

For a fleeting instant a sharp, scrutinizing light flashed in his eyes, but it faded quickly—not because he believed it, but because it wasn’t important.

”Mm.” He gave a brief nod to show he’d heard, but showed no interest whatsoever.

Lewis took it for a kind of acknowledgment and hurried to press his advantage. ”Since Mr. Jin is also going to breakfast, why don’t we... go together? There’s a bakery nearby that’s very popular with the clerks on Whitehall, their tea is also...”

Ledley lifted his hand, as if pressing down on the air. The gesture was short and clean, colder and sharper than a fully worded refusal.

”No need. I eat quickly; it’s not very sociable.”

That raised hand of Ledley’s still hovered midair, as if he might step forward again at any moment.

And just then...

Lewis’s pupils suddenly contracted.

A feeling he knew all too well—yet couldn’t quite place—leapt abruptly out of his mind.

He stared fixedly at Ledley’s profile: that hard, cold-cut jawline, those ice-cold eyes, the aura of a man who would gladly interrogate the air itself...

A thought exploded in his head...

”Ah... you... you...”

Ledley had already taken half a step, the hem of his long coat swinging lightly against his knees.

Just as he was about to step out through the doors of Scotland Yard, Lewis suddenly blurted out, ”Weren’t you... the officer who led the raid on Yellow Chrysanthemum Street last time? I... I remember you.”

The air in the hall seemed to be sucked out in an instant.

Ledley stopped.

His whole body went still, as if nailed to the floor.

Then he slowly turned his head.

”You... remember me?”