This sentence instantly wiped out the last trace of her hesitation.
She'd been at Nightingale Mansion for a year now, but had never once seen this elusive, mysterious Sir.
Still, never having met him didn't mean she didn't know what he looked like—after all, his portrait was hanging right there in the prayer room at Nightingale Mansion.
Rumor had it the boss had paid quite a handsome price for that painting.
"Yes, yes, of course he's in." The girl hurriedly shifted aside half a step, one hand already on the door: "Terribly sorry, Sir, I thought it was… I mean, at this hour, hardly anyone ever comes."
She didn't finish the sentence, but the implication was clear enough.
Nightingale Mansion in daytime never welcomed guests.
Anyone knocking at this hour could only be one of two kinds of people—either they didn't know the rules, or they were the rules.
Arthur clearly belonged to the latter.
