Although Jonathan was excited, he still harbored one final question.
"Mr. Argyle. For something like this, you could have easily sent your own people to London to spread the word. Why give this benefit to our Lloyd Family?"
Felix looked at him and smiled.
"Because of time."
"If I send some nobody to London to say these things, they will only treat it as rumors. That would take too long to ferment, giving Old Morgan enough time to raise and borrow funds."
"But if this news is 'inadvertently' leaked by your Lloyds Bank, a reputable financial institution in London, through an extremely professional analytical report..."
Felix tapped the coffee table.
"Only then will British depositors believe it without a shadow of doubt. This is what you call monetizing credibility. You provide the effort in London, and I provide the intelligence and evidence. Only by joining forces can we send that old man to hell as quickly as possible. You can take these documents with you."
Jonathan stood up, picked up the documents, and bowed slightly to Felix.
"Understood, Mr. Argyle. I will send a coded telegram back to the main family in Birmingham. I believe my elders will not refuse such a sumptuous feast."
After the meeting with Jonathan Lloyd ended, the sky over Manhattan had completely darkened.
The electric lights of the Empire Bank Building lit up.
Felix leaned back in his leather chair, closed his eyes, and massaged his aching temples.
A whole day of high-intensity mental labor left even someone as energetic as him feeling exhausted.
From a cozy breakfast on Long Island, to handling the affairs of various companies, to arranging the bank run plan in London...
He was like an acrobat dancing among dozens of gunpowder kegs; any tiny mistake could trigger a chain explosion.
"Edward."
Felix didn't open his eyes, merely calling out hoarsely.
The chief secretary, who had been waiting outside the door, pushed it open and walked in.
"Boss, Jonathan Lloyd has left. It's clear he was very excited," Frost reported.
"Heh... don't worry about him. Once those damn Brits smell blood, they work faster than hounds."
Felix stood up, walked to the coat rack, and took down his overcoat.
"That's all for today. Arrange a carriage; I'm going to Fifth Avenue."
Right now, Felix only wanted to return as quickly as possible to that gentle, powder-scented haven to completely empty his mind for a few hours.
Furthermore, Hu Mei's playing-hard-to-get attitude from the past two days had Felix quite stirred up.
That would unlock an achievement.
"The carriage is already waiting downstairs."
Frost immediately went to grab his hat.
Just as Felix finished putting on his overcoat and gripped the office door handle...
Urgent footsteps suddenly echoed from the end of the hallway.
Felix stopped, his brow furrowing slightly.
Running on the top floor of the Empire State Building was highly forbidden.
A few seconds later, Timmy, the head of the Intelligence Department, appeared at the office door.
His gray trench coat was still dusted with the Frost from outside.
"Sorry to disturb your rest, Boss, but there's an emergency."
Timmy glanced at the overcoat in Felix's hand, knowing the boss was preparing to leave.
Felix let go of the door handle and turned around.
"It's fine. Why are you so flustered at your age? Has the sky fallen, or has Washington's army marched into New York?"
"Cough... It's Pittsburgh."
"Our scouts in Pittsburgh just sent a telegram. Key figures of the Westinghouse Electric Laboratory, George Westinghouse and Thomas Edison, suddenly hired a large number of carriages yesterday morning and began hastily packing up the laboratory's core equipment and all their notes."
Timmy spoke at a rapid-fire pace.
"According to information provided by a ticket agent bribed by our informant at the train station, they booked an entire freight car bound for the East Coast. Their final destination is New York Harbor. They seem to be planning to board a passenger ship of the British Cunard Line and flee to London, England!"
Hearing this news, Felix's eyes, which had been somewhat tired, instantly flashed with a terrifyingly sharp light.
"Heh... To London? Can they even run?"
Felix found it somewhat amusing.
Old Morgan's industries in America had been completely smashed by him, and his political poisoning plot had been exposed.
Could it be that the old man knows he can't win on home soil, so he decisively relocated the Westinghouse Electric Laboratory?
He is planning to abandon those messes entirely, just to pack up the Westinghouse Electric Laboratory—which represents the lifeblood of future technology—along with its people and blueprints, and move it all to Europe.
"This is so sudden, it doesn't look like it was prepared in advance. Could my move this time have frightened the old geezer?"
Felix didn't know the inside story behind the relocation of the Westinghouse Electric Laboratory, but it was certainly not something Old Morgan had prepared beforehand.
Frost frowned slightly as he listened from the side.
"Boss, it's just a laboratory that's still burning through money. In the past few years, they haven't even developed a commercially viable AC generator. Even if they flee to Britain, it shouldn't be a big deal, right? Shouldn't we focus our energy on bringing down Morgan Bank first?"
"These two things don't conflict."
Felix stroked his chin.
"Edward, you don't have to understand technology, but you cannot lack foresight! I didn't move against Westinghouse Electric before and tolerated them scraping by in Pittsburgh because they were too weak and under my surveillance. In America, as long as I hold the supply chains for Direct Current and copper mines, even if they develop Alternating Current, I have ways to strangle them in their cradle using commercial means."
Felix walked to the French window, looking out at the pitch-black night sky, as if seeing that massive industrial empire on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean.
"But if this Alternating Current technology leaves America and lands in Britain!"
Felix's tone became somewhat cautious.
"They have the most complete patent protection laws in the world right now, as well as a whole system of precision manufacturing accumulated from the Industrial Revolution. If Old Morgan's allies pour all their financial resources into supporting Westinghouse and Edison, the outcome will be hard to say."
"The long-distance transmission advantage of Alternating Current will completely change the world's energy landscape! Once they develop and scale up in Europe, even if we bring down Morgan Bank, Old Morgan's partners can still bring that mature Alternating Current technology back to America! At that point, this expensive Direct Current grid we've laid across the country will quickly turn into obsolete scrap metal!"
This was a bottom line Felix absolutely could not tolerate.
As a transmigrator, he knew all too well the absolute dominance of Alternating Current over the next century.
It was a true dimensional strike.
This spark of technology, capable of overturning an era, must either be held in the hands of his Argyle Family, or it must be completely extinguished from the face of the Earth.
He could not allow it to fall into the laboratories of those hostile families in Europe.
Although he had already funded the god of Alternating Current, he would not underestimate Edison and Westinghouse.
After all, things were different from the original history.
"Timmy."
"You just said their train tickets were for yesterday morning, correct?"
"Yes, Boss. Traveling along the Pennsylvania Railroad, they are expected to arrive at New York Harbor tomorrow morning."
Timmy answered honestly upon hearing the boss's question.
"Oh, so it's on my railway line."
Felix put his overcoat back on, no longer weighing options in his eyes, only cold indifference remaining.
"Mobilize the most capable action team of the Intelligence Department. Stop the train at any desolate stretch before it enters New Jersey or New York State. Then, burn all the blueprints, notebooks, and coil models without leaving a single scrap of paper!"
Timmy looked at Felix and asked cautiously, "What if... Edison and the others resist?"
Felix gripped the door handle without turning back.
Stretched by the gaslight, his silhouette appeared incredibly tall and terrifying.
"Just handle it as you see fit..."
Inside the master bedroom of the Fifth Avenue villa, thick velvet curtains completely shut out the cold early winter wind.
The fire in the fireplace had gradually died down, leaving only dull red embers radiating residual warmth.
On the large European-style bed, Felix leaned against the headboard, holding a freshly brewed cup of green tea.
Su Ying was curled up on the innermost side of the quilt, sleeping soundly with steady breathing.
On the other side, Hu Mei was leaning against a bolster.
She didn't look tired at all; instead, her watery eyes shone with the satisfaction of having achieved her heart's desire.
"Sir, there is a word in Chinese called'submission'."
Hu Mei lightly traced her finger across Felix's chest, pronouncing the two words in the soft, melodic accent of Jiangnan.
Felix raised an eyebrow, set down his teacup, and repeated the words in stiff Chinese.
"Submission?"
Felix then switched back to English.
"That sounds like a political term. In your Great Qing Empire, is it used to describe the attitude of officials toward the emperor?"
Although Hu Mei couldn't understand complex English sentences, she was extremely adept at reading people's expressions.
The vocabulary she had memorized by rote over the past month, combined with her rich body language, was enough for her to carry out basic communication with this man.
"Not entirely."
Hu Mei explained in broken English mixed with Chinese, while snuggling closer into Felix's arms.
"A woman's submission to a man is the same. As long as you are strong enough, we yield willingly."
Felix laughed and pinched Hu Mei's chin.
"You're a clever woman. You understand the rules here even better than the one sleeping next to you. Not only did you actively open this door, but you also know how to please me with your language. I wouldn't mind having a few more of these 'Chinese lessons' every day."
Hu Mei's eyes filled with a misty gaze.
"As long as you wish. Whether on the desk or anywhere else, I can teach you."
Felix let go of her and leaned back against the headboard.
He understood Hu Mei's intentions perfectly.
This woman had scraped by in the Music Registry and knew that youth and beauty depreciated. Only by binding herself completely to a man of absolute power could she survive in this unfamiliar city of steel.
And he, for one, had no need for hypocritical reserve.
Felix looked at Hu Mei playfully and said, "I think the hallway would be a great place to study..."
...
On the other side of the Atlantic, the City of London was shrouded in thick fog.
A four-story granite building on Lombard Street was the headquarters of Lloyds Bank.
In the top-floor family conference room, only three people sat around the long walnut conference table.
There were no extra observers here—only the three helmsmen who truly held the core power of the Lloyd family.
Sitting at the head of the table was the family patriarch, Samuel Lloyd.
He was nearly seventy, but his back was still straight, and he held a copy of a telegram over a dozen pages long in his hand.
This was the top-secret intelligence Jonathan had sent back overnight.
Sitting on his left was Thomas Lloyd, who was in charge of fund allocation. On his right was Arthur Lloyd, who controlled the family's media and public relations network.
"Have you both finished reading it?"
Samuel set down the telegram, his gaze sweeping over his two nephews.
Thomas pushed up the gold-rimmed glasses on the bridge of his nose, his tone laced with uncontrollable excitement.
"I've finished, Uncle. This is simply a gift from God. Jonathan listed every single account clearly in the telegram. With the run on the New York United Credit Bank, Old Morgan lost millions of pounds. And another million pounds was poured into the pharmaceutical factories in Boston and New Jersey, as well as the steel mills in Ohio."
Thomas tapped the table heavily with his finger.
"A net loss of 2.5 million pounds. This means that Morgan Bank's cash flow has been severely drained!"
"The key lies in the source of this money," Samuel said in a deep voice.
"Thomas, you manage the ledgers. Do you think Junius Morgan would use money from his family's vaults to fill that bottomless pit in America?"
"Absolutely impossible." Thomas shook his head with absolute certainty. "As far as I know, most of Old Morgan's own capital is locked up in European government bonds and fixed real estate trusts. For him to mobilize over two million pounds in cash to America in just a few short months, the only way would be to misappropriate the demand deposits of Morgan Bank's depositors! This is an open secret in the industry, isn't it?"
Arthur Lloyd, who had been silent, spoke up, playing with an unlit cigar in his hand.
"So, that man named Argyle in New York sent this extremely detailed ledger to Jonathan with the sole purpose of having us act as the match that ignites the powder keg here in London."
Arthur sneered.
"Ha... he wants to use our hands to completely destroy Morgan Bank through the panic of a depositor run. The reason he isn't showing his own face is probably to prevent a backlash from the government."
"Yes, that is exactly his plan," Samuel said, leaning back in his chair.
"But this piece of meat is too fat. It is so fat that even though we know we are being used as someone else's blade, we must grasp it without hesitation. After all, we have been suppressed by Rothschild and Baring Brothers in London for too long. Swallowing Morgan Bank's market share is a golden opportunity for our family to rise to the first tier."
Samuel's eyes grew sharp.
"Alright, Arthur. Mobilize all our media resources on Fleet Street. Contact the editor-in-chief of the Daily Telegraph, as well as those financial tabloids we secretly control. Tomorrow morning, I want every merchant and aristocrat in London to see the news of Morgan Bank's complete failure and total loss on their investments in America while they drink their morning tea."
"How should we draft the headline?" Arthur asked.
"No need for overly exaggerated descriptions; just let the data speak for itself."
"Include the details of the factory explosions that Jonathan sent back. The British have a natural panic toward America's savage business environment. Once they see factories turned to ruins, they will immediately think of their own savings."
Thomas added from the side, "Uncle, I feel that news in the newspapers alone might not be enough. Old Morgan has deep credibility in London; some old clients might choose to wait and see."
"Then let's add some fuel to the fire in the salons and clubs," Samuel said, looking at Thomas.
"Have your relationship managers spread rumors in the exclusive clubs in Knightsbridge. Tell them that our Wall Street office has confirmed that all the factories Morgan Bank invested in have been destroyed. Those cotton merchants and shipping magnates who have deposited money with Morgan are the most sensitive to this kind of news."
Samuel stood up, walked to the window of the conference room, and looked out at the thin mist over the River Thames.
"Thomas, go and notify the vault manager. Withdraw all of our liquid funds and stack them in the most conspicuous spot on the counters."
"When the doors of Morgan Bank are packed with panicked depositors and they cannot produce gold sovereigns, the doors of our Lloyds Bank must be flung wide open to them. Tell those waiting in line that as long as they are willing to transfer their accounts to us, we will not only cash their bills immediately but also offer an extra half percentage point of interest."
Samuel's aging face flushed with a greedy glow.
"When the sun rises tomorrow, we will turn 22 Broad Street into an abandoned grave."
While the Lloyd family in London was plotting how to destroy Morgan Bank through a bank run, a more direct and bloody interception was quietly unfolding in the pitch-black night on the wilderness of America.
On a desolate railway line at the border of Pennsylvania and New Jersey.
It was far from any town, with nothing but endless withered forests and howling cold winds.
Over twenty people wearing dark woolen trench coats stood by the tracks, keeping watch around a fire they had lit.
Behind them, over twenty horses were tethered.
Timmy, the head of the Intelligence Department, was at the front, holding a cold monocular telescope, staring intently into the darkness where the railway line extended.
Beside him was the scarred man codenamed "Ketchum."
"Boss, it's about time."
Ketchum leaned toward the firelight to check the hands of his pocket watch.
"The switchman five miles ahead has already signaled. The train hauling the Westinghouse Electric freight cars will pass by and stop here within fifteen minutes."
Timmy lowered the telescope, his voice as cold as the railway tracks in this winter night.
"Is everyone ready?"
"Ready long ago," Ketchum grinned.
"We've already arranged it with the Pennsylvania Railroad; they'll stop when they see the firelight. As for what comes next, our brothers could do it with their eyes closed."
Timmy turned his head, scanning the elite operation team behind him.
"Listen closely, everyone. The target is that reinforced freight car, the third from the end of the train."
Timmy lowered his voice, piercing through the biting cold wind.
"No negotiations or warnings needed. After rushing in, secure all the blueprints, notebooks, and coil models in that car first. As for the people inside..."
Timmy paused. The words his boss had said in the office, telling him to handle it as he saw fit, flashed through his mind.
As the core dark cleaner of the Argyle Family, he had his own logic for judgment.
"Although the boss didn't explicitly say to kill them, I can tell the boss is worried about Alternating Current technology leaking to Europe. Dead men can never draw blueprints, and they certainly can't go to London."
Timmy did not intend to leave any hidden dangers behind.
In this wilderness of America, making a few people die in an "accidental" train derailment was child's play for him.
"Listen up," Timmy raised his head, his eyes devoid of any warmth.
"After rushing into the car, if you encounter any resistance, open fire immediately—no survivors. I don't want to see anyone walk off this train alive, understand?"
"Understood," the twenty-plus subordinates growled in unison.
Just then, faint lights appeared on the distant horizon.
Immediately following, the roar of massive machinery approached from afar.
A steam locomotive, belching thick black smoke and hauling long freight cars, was racing along the tracks like a steel behemoth.
Timmy raised his right hand. Everyone pulled back their bolts, chambering rounds.
The train got closer and closer. The engineer clearly saw the firelight, remembered his superior's instructions, and began to slow down.
As the speed decreased, the locomotive slowly passed the fire and came to a stop.
"Go!" Seeing the train had come to a halt, Timmy swung his right hand down fiercely.
Twenty-plus dark figures shot forward like arrows released from a bowstring.
They accurately pounced toward the third freight car from the end of the train.
As the door to the car was forced open, Timmy was the first to rush in, his revolver pointed forward.
In the corner of the car, George Westinghouse and Thomas Edison, still wondering why the train had suddenly stopped again, were behind several wooden crates.
The few men sent by Old Morgan to protect them had just drawn their guns; before they could even aim, they were riddled with bullets by Ketchum and the others who rushed in behind.
The smell of blood instantly filled the entire car.
"Don't shoot! Don't shoot!" Edison watched those who had died miserably on the floor, trembling all over. He raised his hands and slowly stood up from behind the wooden crates.
George Westinghouse also stood up. His forehead had been cut open while taking cover, and blood was streaming down his face, but he still tried to shield the suitcase filled with core blueprints behind him with his body.
Timmy, holding his gun, walked toward them step by step.
By the light, Edison could clearly see Timmy's cold, ruthless face.
He had spent some time in the Argyle Family's Central Laboratory, so he naturally recognized this intelligence chief who always worked in the shadows for Felix.
"It's you!" Edison shouted, as if grabbing onto a lifeline.
"It is me, Thomas." Timmy's voice had no inflection.
"Mr. Timmy, we didn't intentionally want to go against Mr. Argyle; it was that old madman Morgan who forced us."
Looking at the dark muzzle of the gun in Timmy's hand, Edison explained desperately, trying to save his own life, begging incoherently.
"I won't go to London anymore. I... I can return to New York. I can continue to work for Mr. Argyle! As long as you give me a laboratory, I can definitely build the perfect Alternating Current generator. Please, take me to see Mr. Argyle; he needs my brain!"
George Westinghouse watched Edison's extremely pathetic begging from the side, coldly. He didn't speak, just clenched his fists tightly.
Timmy listened quietly to Edison's defense.
Looking at this genius who was once promoted and trusted by Mr. Argyle, who resigned for profit to take Morgan's money to develop Alternating Current, and now wanted to fawn and beg.
Disgust flashed in Timmy's eyes.
"Thomas, the boss might care about your brain."
Timmy slowly raised his right arm and pressed the muzzle directly against the center of Edison's forehead.
"But in my eyes, someone who betrayed Mr. Argyle doesn't even have the right to breathe the air of America."
Edison's pupils dilated instantly; he opened his mouth, wanting to say something more.
"Bang!" A crisp gunshot rang out.
A mist of blood burst from the back of Edison's head, and his whole body slumped onto the floor of the car like a pile of mud.
George Westinghouse watched his companion fall at his feet and closed his eyes. He knew he wouldn't survive either.
"Do it." Timmy didn't even look at Westinghouse; he turned around and gave the order to his subordinates.
Another burst of rapid gunfire, and Westinghouse collapsed onto the suitcase filled with blueprints.
"Split open all the wooden crates. Throw all those notebooks, blueprints, and equipment off the train, along with these corpses."
Timmy looked at the fruits of their hard work scattered all over the floor, his tone extremely cold.
His subordinates acted quickly. In less than ten minutes, the Alternating Current materials, equipment, and a dozen or so corpses were all piled into a small mound.
"That's it. Let the train continue on its way."
Soon, the train engineer, having been notified, hurriedly started the train again, not daring to stop for a single moment.
Seeing the train move away, Timmy struck a match and threw it onto the small mound.
With a "whoosh," flames shot up into the sky, the high temperature instantly swallowing those blueprints and bodies.
Timmy stood before the fire, watching the dozen or so corpses and the materials and equipment gradually carbonize in the intense flames. The boss's hidden danger had been eliminated.
At the first light of dawn, this elite squad that had been raiding throughout the night had already returned to New York silently.
Timmy dismissed his men, then pulled up the collar of his trench coat and walked alone through the still-sleeping streets of Manhattan, arriving at the Intelligence Department's secret contact point in the Lower East Side.
This was a shop disguised as a clock repair store.
Timmy pushed the door open and entered.
The apprentice in the shop saw it was him and immediately pulled down the rolling shutter, hanging up a "Closed for Business" sign.
"Boss, you're back. Did everything go smoothly?"
The liaison, code-named "Marco," walked out from behind the counter and handed Timmy a cup of hot coffee.
"Very smoothly. Those waste papers and geniuses who tried to run to England have all turned into ashes in the Pennsylvania wilderness."
Timmy took the coffee and took a sip.
Although he hadn't slept all night, his mind remained in a state of high concentration.
"What about the headquarters' daily briefing? Any movements in the dozen hours I've been gone?"
Timmy walked to the desk in the back room, sat down, and habitually began to review the intelligence.
Marco's expression became somewhat ugly.
"Yes, Boss. Something might have happened; it's about Washington."
Marco gritted his teeth and explained the situation.
"Just three hours ago. Our mole in Washington sent a warning. Mr. Flynn... seems to have gotten into trouble."
The hand holding the coffee cup suddenly paused; Timmy lifted his head, and two beams of cold light shot out from his dead-fish-like eyes.
"Flynn? What happened to him?"
Flynn was the highest-ranking person the Boss had planted in the Federal Intelligence Bureau.
He had been operating in Washington for so long that he could be considered the Argyle Family's important eye inside the Federal Government.
"Uh... he's been suspended, and it's not just suspension." Marshall's voice sounded tight.
"Early yesterday morning, several teams of heavily armed federal personnel knocked directly on the door of his apartment in the District. They confiscated his service weapon and identification. Now he is under restricted personal freedom and is undergoing internal review."
"Bam!"
The coffee cup in Timmy's hand was smashed directly, and the scalding coffee splashed onto the back of his hand, but he seemed not to feel it at all.
"Who gave the order? Do those pigs in the Department of Justice dare to touch our people?"
"It doesn't seem to be the Department of Justice, Boss."
Marco took out a telegram copy and handed it over.
"The informant inquired; this order seems to have been sent directly from the communication carriage on the presidential train. It must have been an order from President Ulysses S. Grant himself."
Marco continued to report the news the informant had gathered.
"And it's not just Flynn. In the Federal Intelligence Bureau, all mid-level intelligence officers who had previously worked for the Argyle Family or had a background in the Intelligence Department have all been suspended from their duties today, preparing to undergo investigation."
"Grant replaced them all with his confidants brought from the army, and... and yesterday, it seems some people were watching the senior members of the family."
Hearing this,
Timmy stood up abruptly.
On that face, which usually had no extra expression, a look of shock appeared.
No way, is Grant insane!
Why did he suddenly start targeting us?
No matter how you look at it, this is not ordinary bureaucratic infighting.
Combined with the fact that the senior members of the family are being watched, it further highlights that this matter is absolutely unusual.
Without a direct death order from Congress or the President, no minister would dare to pull out the nails the Argyle Family has inside the government at this time.
Let alone monitor the senior members of the Argyle Family.
Could it be that Grant is determined to cut off all the family's intelligence sources in Washington during this sensitive election period?
"How could this happen..."
Timmy walked back and forth rapidly in the room, his brain racing.
"The Boss analyzed this before. Even if Grant is suspicious of us, he absolutely wouldn't dare to fall out with us! He still needs our newspapers to help him win votes, and he needs economic development. It's impossible for him to cut off his own arms at this time!"
Timmy stopped and stared fixedly at Marco.
"Unless..."
Timmy's heart began to beat wildly.
Having worked in intelligence for many years, he had an instinctive intuition about this kind of sudden purge.
"Unless Grant heard some news that made him feel his life was threatened, forcing him to make an immediate stress reaction! That one million dollar political poisoning from Old Morgan is definitely not the whole story!"
Timmy knew that the situation had reached an extremely dangerous edge.
Since Grant dared to purge the Federal Intelligence Bureau, what is he going to do next?
Send the army to seal the Imperial Bank?
Or send agents to New York to directly monitor or even assassinate the Boss?
In this era without the bottom line of the rule of law, a president who possesses power and is driven into panic is capable of doing anything crazy.
"Boss, what should we do now?"
Marco looked at Timmy and panicked as well.
"This matter is too big; it has already exceeded the scope that the Intelligence Department can handle."
Timmy grabbed the gray trench coat hanging on the back of the chair.
"I must report to the Boss in person immediately; the sword in Washington is already hanging over our necks!"
Timmy rushed out of the shop.
Outside, the morning in Manhattan had just begun.
Milkmen and newspaper boys were weaving through the streets.
Timmy didn't care about hiding his tracks and directly hailed a rental carriage on the side of the road.
"Where to, sir?" the carriage driver asked.
"Fifth Avenue, as fast as you can! If you can get there within ten minutes, this gold coin is yours."
Timmy slammed a gold coin directly onto the carriage driver's seat.
The carriage driver's eyes went straight when he saw the gold coin.
He whipped the horse carriage, and it began to race crazily along the cobblestone streets of Manhattan.
Inside the carriage,
Timmy gripped the handrail tightly, watching the buildings receding rapidly outside the window.
He didn't know what that President Ulysses S. Grant on the distant presidential train was thinking, daring to directly target the family like this.
But he knew that a tsunami about to sweep through the entire political and business circles of America had probably already inevitably erupted.
"Faster... faster..."
Timmy urged silently in his heart.
He had to get this deadly news to the Boss's ears before The White House's next move arrived.
Ten-plus minutes later,
The carriage came to a sudden halt in front of that white, Vienna-style villa on Fifth Avenue.
Timmy didn't even wait for the carriage driver to open the door; he pushed it open and jumped down.
Seeing the vigilant security personnel outside the iron gate, Timmy revealed his true face directly.
"It's me, I have an urgent matter to report."
The security captain recognized Timmy and quickly ordered his men to open the iron gate to let him through.
Timmy successfully walked into the villa's courtyard, even though he knew Felix didn't like being disturbed during his rest.
But at this life-and-death moment, those so-called rules and disturbances were no longer important.
Early in the morning, Fifth Avenue was still shrouded in a light mist. Outside the oak door of the master bedroom on the second floor of the villa, the maid knocked gently on the door panel.
"Sir, there is a guest waiting for you in the living room downstairs who says the matter is very urgent."
Felix, on the large bed, opened his eyes and frowned slightly.
He did not disturb Hu Mei and Su Ying, who were still fast asleep. He rolled out of bed with agile movements and casually picked up the robe from the coat rack to drape over himself.
Pushing open the door, Felix looked at the maid standing in the hallway with her head lowered.
"Who is it?"
"That gentleman said his name is Timmy."
The maid answered tremblingly.
Felix's brow furrowed immediately.
That brat Timmy was someone who understood the rules; he would never come directly to find him at the crack of dawn unless it was a major matter.
"Bring him to the study and bring up two cups of strong coffee."
After giving the order, Felix walked straight toward the study at the end of the hallway.
Pushing open the study door, Felix pulled back the heavy curtains, letting the faint morning light filter in.
A few minutes later, accompanied by footsteps, Timmy walked into the study.
When Felix turned around and saw Timmy, the Intelligence Department director had deep sunken eye sockets, a grayish complexion, and looked utterly exhausted.
"Sit down and talk."
Felix pointed to the chair opposite the desk.
Timmy did not stand on ceremony and collapsed into the chair.
The maid walked in with the coffee, set it down, and quickly retreated, closing the door tightly behind her.
"Boss, the matter in Pittsburgh has been taken care of."
Timmy picked up the coffee and took a direct gulp, trying to dispel the chill in his body with the scalding liquid.
"Edison and Westinghouse, along with all the blueprints and models they were carrying... they have all been burned to ashes in the wilderness. No one will be able to make it to London alive."
Felix nodded expressionlessly, as if he had only just heard about stepping on two ants.
"Understood." Felix leaned against the edge of the desk.
"There's something else, isn't there? If it were just to report those two dead men to me, you wouldn't have come running here at this hour. What happened?"
Timmy's fingers gripping the coffee cup turned slightly white.
"It's Washington, Boss. Flynn and the others are in trouble."
Timmy raised his head; those dead-fish eyes were now bloodshot.
"Early yesterday morning, people from the Department of Justice went to Flynn's apartment. He has been suspended from all duties as Deputy Director of the Federal Intelligence Bureau and is currently under internal investigation. Not just him, but all the old hands in the entire Intelligence Bureau who came from us have been suspended."
The air in the study instantly froze.
Felix's hand holding the coffee cup stopped in mid-air, his brain beginning to race instantly.
"Under investigation? What investigation?"
"Currently, it's nominally a security review. But in reality, it's an isolation purge."
"Furthermore, according to reports from our people on the perimeter, there are people watching the outskirts of the Long Island estate, the street corners of the Empire State Building, and even a few blocks away from this villa. Also, the surroundings of the senior figures in the family company have all been placed under surveillance."
Hearing this, Felix set the coffee cup down heavily on the desk, making a dull thud.
That drunkard Grant, what exactly does he want to do?
Felix frowned and paced slowly on the study carpet.
Something was wrong.
He knew that Old Morgan had pulled that one-million-dollar political poisoning stunt in Washington, and he had guessed that Grant would become suspicious of this money.
But no matter how he thought about it, it didn't make sense.
"Could it be just because he knows I found out about his suppression plan? And so he feels that Flynn and the others aren't loyal to the United States?"
Felix muttered to himself, as if asking Timmy, and as if deducing it for himself.
"That doesn't make sense, Timmy."
Stopping his pace, Felix looked at his intelligence chief.
"In the bureaucratic system of Washington, planting one's own people and acting as each other's eyes and ears—this kind of thing, while not something to be seen in the light, is pretty much the same for everyone. It's not like we're the only ones inserting people into the Intelligence Bureau. Those bankers in Boston, or even Grant's own cabinet ministers—who doesn't have a few secret plants underneath?"
"Even if he is suspicious of me, he wouldn't go to the extent of causing such a massive purge at this critical moment of the election, risking a complete falling out with me just for this minor unwritten rule."
Felix walked back to the window, watching the sky gradually brightening outside.
"Could it be that the fool Grant actually thinks I would team up with the Democratic Party to drive him out of office? Or, in this process, has Old Morgan been up to some other shady business that I don't know about?"
Timmy sat in the chair, deep in thought for a moment.
"Boss, no matter what the President has heard, his current reaction is already an stress response born of panic. Purging Flynn and the others indicates that he has already cast us as a threat. We cannot just wait for him to continue doing this."
"Of course not."
Felix turned around, his gaze becoming extremely sharp.
"Send someone to the telegraph office immediately. Use that insider line to send a telegram to Washington. Go find Thomas and tell him about Flynn being investigated."
Tapping his temples with his fingers, Felix said methodically.
"Have Thomas use his connections as Speaker in the Senate to put pressure on the Department of Justice. Whatever the excuse—judicial procedure or personnel impeachment—have him try his best to delay and stop this matter from spreading. Let the bureaucratic system in Washington get bogged down in a quagmire of mutual bickering."
Timmy nodded, noting down this order.
"Boss, if Flynn and the others are in interrogation..."
"Don't worry about Flynn."
Felix waved his hand, cutting off Timmy.
"When Flynn was doing intelligence work, those people in the Department of Justice were still suckling. They won't be able to find anything. Even if Grant really wants to find an excuse, at most it will be a forced dismissal. They wouldn't dare do anything excessive."
Felix walked to the desk, bracing his hands on the tabletop.
"However, we must figure out why Grant is doing this. And those people hiding on the street corners monitoring us—whose people are they?"
"There is one more thing: go and grab Cavendish for me."
Felix suddenly changed the subject, his tone revealing a chilling ruthlessness.
Because he had an intuition that this absolutely had something to do with Old Morgan.
"Old Morgan's dirty work in America must be controlled through him. He absolutely knows about the one million given to the Democratic Party. Go to Philadelphia, drag him out of that dilapidated house, and throw him into the basement. He must know some inside information."
"Understood, I will arrange for the action team to go to Philadelphia immediately."
Timmy stood up, preparing to leave.
"Wait..."
Felix looked at the frost on Timmy's clothes and his haggard face, stepped forward, and patted his shoulder, his tone filled with concern.
"After you've arranged the matters, go home and get a good night's sleep. Don't wear yourself out; otherwise, Effie will be bringing Titch to complain to me."
Hearing the names of his wife and son and the concern in his master's voice, an imperceptible emotion flashed through Timmy's dead-fish eyes. He felt a warm current flow through his chest and opened his mouth slightly.
"I know, Sir."
When Felix finished washing up, changed into a formal suit, and walked downstairs, seven women were already sitting at the long dining table in the first-floor dining room, waiting.
The absurdity and debauchery that had taken place on the second floor last night seemed not to have left much of a trace on their outward etiquette.
It was just that the way the other five women looked at Hu Mei and Su Ying was a bit strange.
Facing these gazes, Hu Mei sat next to Su Ying with her usual expression, only casting a gentle and charming glance when Felix took his seat.
Liu Wanqing secretly rolled her eyes but maintained the decorum typical of someone from a merchant family, as always. She greeted Felix politely in English.
"Good morning, Mr. Argyle."
"Hmm, morning."
Felix responded casually, pulled out a chair, sat down, and began to eat.
The breakfast was sumptuous, but his mind was not on the dining table at all right now.
The changes with Washington, Flynn, and the others, and the arrest plan for Cavendish were constantly intertwining in his mind; he needed to rush to the Empire State Building to handle things as soon as possible.
"By the way. You can stay in the villa today, or you can have the housekeeper arrange a carriage to go to the Universal Department Store in Manhattan for a stroll."
Felix cut the ham on his plate, giving instructions without even raising his head.
The group of women looked at each other in bewilderment.
They had to know that Mr. Argyle had not allowed them to go out before; he was actually allowing them to go out today?
But they could feel that this man was exuding an oppressive aura today. That aura made them afraid to even breathe loudly.
What on earth happened?
Ignoring the thoughts of these women, Felix wiped his mouth with a napkin after eating and stood up directly, walking towards the door.
In the courtyard outside the villa, more than a dozen fully armed security personnel were already ready for battle. They wore uniform black trench coats, the hems of which were bulging, obviously carrying weapons.
The security captain personally opened the carriage door.
Felix stepped into the carriage, leaned back against the leather seat, and closed his eyes.
"Let's go."
Upon receiving the order, the coachman waved his whip, and the two sturdy draft horses stepped forward.
Escorted by a carriage full of bodyguards in front and behind, this small convoy slowly drove out of the Fifth Avenue district.
The streets of New York in the early morning were already becoming noisy.
Newspaper boys on the roadside were waving that day's newspapers, and the cargo carriages made dull crushing sounds on the cobblestone road.
Crowds were bustling on both sides of the street.
The convoy drove steadily along the established route towards Wall Street.
When driving past an intersection under construction, the view around was blocked by several piles of high red bricks and wooden scaffolding.
Felix, sitting in the carriage, was resting with his eyes closed.
Suddenly, a sharp sound of piercing air tore through the morning clamor.
"Bang!"
A dull gunshot, accompanied by the violent vibration of metal impact.
Felix opened his eyes abruptly.
He could clearly feel something smashing heavily against the outer wall of the carriage. But the steel plate embedded inside perfectly blocked this fatal lead bullet, leaving only a dull echo inside the carriage.
"Damn it, enemy attack! Protect the boss! Counterattack!"
The security captain's desperate roar came from outside.
Immediately after, gunfire like exploding beans erupted crazily at the intersection.
"Bang, bang, bang! Bang, bang, bang!"
From behind the pile of red bricks and the second-floor windows across the street, tongues of fire spat out simultaneously.
Felix sat in the carriage with a cold face, listening to the "clanging" sounds of bullets hitting the carriage's steel plates outside.
This dull impact was as dense as hail.
"Winchester repeating rifles, and Colt revolvers." Felix calmly identified the firepower outside in his heart.
The opponent not only had rifles, but some people were even trying to approach the carriage.
"Damn bastards! Open fire! Suppress the second floor!"
The Argyle Family security team was definitely not to be trifled with.
These tough guys, carefully selected from retired veterans and Western gunmen, immediately launched an extremely fierce counterattack after experiencing the initial panic.
The security guards jumped off the carriages, used the carriages and roadside obstacles as cover, drew their weapons from their waists, and fired back crazily at the places where the muzzle flashes appeared.
"Shit, Captain, there are people over there too."
One team member shouted after dodging bullets.
"Rice, take some men down there and finish them off! Gooden, cover me."
After speaking, the security captain leaned out and fired upstairs.
With the crossfire between the two sides, people on the street started to look for places to hide.
After all, bullets didn't have eyes at this time, and they could be hit by bullets at any moment.
Thus, the entire intersection turned into a bloody battlefield, and the smell of gunpowder and blood quickly permeated the cold air.
"Ah!"
A bodyguard blocking the door of Felix's carriage screamed, his thigh pierced by a rifle bullet, and blood instantly stained the cobblestone road red.
Another security guard was quick-witted and dragged him to the bottom of the carriage.
The battle lasted less than five minutes.
Under the extremely strong firepower suppression and tactical coordination of the security team, the ambushers' offensive began to crumble.
A gunman in the second-floor window had his head blown off by the security captain, his body falling directly from the windowsill and crashing heavily onto a coal transport carriage below.
Seeing that the situation was bad, the assassins behind the red brick pile tried to turn and run.
"Don't let them run, go!"
The security captain roared, leading a few men to charge up directly.
After a few more sporadic gunshots, the movement outside finally gradually subsided.
The carriage door was knocked on.
The security captain stood outside, his face covered in blood, with a blood groove on his left arm, but his eyes were still fierce.
"Boss, are you okay?"
"I'm fine, how was it handled? Do we have any casualties?"
Felix's voice was cold without the slightest fluctuation, only frost filled the bottom of his eyes.
"Report to the boss, two assassins are dead, and three were captured alive."
"Four of our guys were injured, fortunately, none of them are fatal wounds."
Felix took out his pocket watch from his pocket and looked at the time.
"I see. Have someone take the injured guys to the Union Hospital immediately, and use the best medicine."
"As for the three captured alive. Send someone to take them to the basement of the Metropolis warehouse and let the Intelligence Department take over. Have the Intelligence Department find out who hired them, to dare to assassinate me in New York."
"Leave one person here to deal with the scene and handle the police, everyone else get in the car and continue to follow me to the company according to the itinerary."
After giving instructions, Felix continued to close his eyes and rest.
In fact, Felix had a general idea of who did it.
It was either Grant or Old Morgan.
After all, one had just blocked his eyes in the government, and the other had the feud of killing his son.
But it couldn't be said that it was impossible for others to do it, because I'm afraid there was more than just these two people who wanted him dead, right?
Who knows, was there someone who wanted to borrow a knife to kill?
"This matter better not be arranged by you, Grant..."
While Felix was on his way to the company, news of his assassination attempt spread quickly throughout the city.
"Felix Argyle was ambushed on Fifth Avenue!"
This news was like a drop of cold water hitting a hot wok, instantly igniting the entire New York City within a mere half hour.
Even in this era without the prevalence of the internet or telephones, the speed at which the news spread was still astonishingly fast.
Street patrolmen blew their whistles, and newspaper reporters, like sharks smelling blood, rushed toward the bullet-riddled intersection with their cameras in hand.
Meanwhile, at the Wall Street stock exchange.
When a sweat-drenched trader rushed into the hall and hysterically shouted the news, the entire trading floor fell into a deathly silence, followed immediately by an uproar like boiling water.
"Argyle was assassinated? Is he dead?"
"God! If he's dead, the stocks of the Pennsylvania Railroad and the Erie Railroad will plummet immediately! Sell! Sell immediately!"
"Fuck, hold on. I heard Argyle was riding in a special carriage and wasn't hurt at all! The security team even killed two assassins on the street!"
Wealthy individuals and government officials whispered and discussed the matter in their respective offices and salons.
"Randall, you son of a bitch!"
At City Hall, the mayor of New York was furiously slamming the table, berating the police chief for being a waste of space.
You must know that his position was already unstable, and in recent years, Tammany Hall had been suppressed by the Argyle Family to the point of gasping for breath.
Many leaders of government departments had become Irish Republicans, and it was blindingly obvious who was supporting them from behind the scenes.
With the New York mayoral election approaching, the King of New York was actually assassinated in New York—what kind of devilish joke is this!
Would anyone else feel safe?
As for those competitors who had been suppressed by the Argyle Family to the point of suffocation in business, they even felt a surge of ecstasy the moment they heard the news.
But upon learning that Felix was unharmed, that joy immediately turned into deeper fear and disappointment.
After all, if that guy Argyle went crazy, who knew if he would take it out on them.
This news also spread rapidly via telegraph lines to every city across America.
When the backup carriage Felix was riding in finally stopped at the steps of the Empire Bank Building.
The security level for the entire building had been raised to the highest, with hundreds of armed guards blocking the entrance to the building completely.
Surrounded by a crowd, Felix stepped off the carriage with an expressionless face and strode into the lobby.
His leather shoes clicked against the marble floor, producing an extremely steady sound. All the employees along the way stopped their work, watching this king who had just walked out of a hail of bullets with awe and even fanaticism.
Just as he walked into the top-floor president's office.
Before Felix could even take off his coat, the internal dedicated telephones on the desk began to ring frantically.
Chief Secretary Frost, drenched in sweat, picked up one of them, listened for a second, and immediately covered the mouthpiece to look at Felix.
"Boss, it's Mr. Jones calling from the Food Company."
Felix walked over and took the receiver.
"Hello? What is it, Jones?"
"Boss! Are you alright!"
From the other end of the line came Jones's long-unheard, irritable roar.
"Don't worry, I'm fine."
"That's good, God bless. Which blind son of a bitch did this, daring to attempt to assassinate you."
In his earlier years, Jones was just as ruthless as Miller; it was only after serving as the president of the Food Company for these years that he started living a quieter life.
Hearing that his boss had been assassinated, he had clearly entered a berserk state.
"Calm down, Jones. I haven't lost a single hair." Felix's calm tone instantly suppressed Jones's anger.
"Just manage the affairs of the Food Company well; don't get involved in anything else. I will have the Intelligence Department handle this matter."
After hanging up Jones's call, another dedicated line rang.
This time it was Catherine, her voice trembling slightly.
"Felix... I just heard the news that you were at the intersection..."
"I'm fine, my dear."
Felix's voice softened a little.
"The steel plates of that special carriage are very sturdy. Don't worry; I've already had someone strengthen the security at the hospital. I will be back on Long Island on time this evening to have dinner with you."
In the next half hour, the presidents of the family's various companies in New York, such as Hayes and Hamilton, called one after another.
Felix calmed them down one by one.
After the office finally quieted down, he walked to the floor-to-ceiling window, watching the still-bustling Wall Street below.
After calming his mood, he began to handle official business.
Night fell, and Felix stopped his pen and asked Frost, who had just entered.
"Well, have you found out clearly?"
"Yes, Boss. The interrogation results from the basement have just been sent up."
Frost handed the report in his hand to the desk.
"I've been looking at documents all day; just tell me directly."
"Very well, Boss. The three survivors confessed. They are not professional assassins at all, just robbers who drifted to New York from the West. Someone spent fifty thousand dollars in cash on the black market to buy your life. The employer did not show their face, and the money was placed in a dead drop."
Felix looked surprised, even revealing a speechless smile.
"What? Fifty thousand dollars? Is my life really worth so little?"
He walked over to the sofa and sat down.
The method of this assassination was extremely crude and did not look like it was carefully planned at all.
This made Felix feel relieved; after all, if it had really been ordered by President Ulysses S. Grant, it would have been impossible for it to turn out like this.
"Ahem... Boss. Although they don't know who the employer is, the source of this money..."
Frost hesitated for a moment.
"Who else could it be besides Old Morgan?"
After ruling out Grant, Felix gave the answer directly.
Then, a dangerous glint radiated from his eyes.
"That damn old man's physical assets in America were destroyed, but the four million pounds of credit couldn't have all been spent. He must still have a surplus of funds in his secret account in Philadelphia that hasn't been used. It's entirely possible he used that money to buy my life."
Felix tapped on the coffee table, deducing his opponent's final madness.
"Because he knows it's impossible to defeat me in business. The only thing his irrational brain can think of is to use the remaining money to crazily put a bounty on my head. Today's group is just the beginning; as long as that money is still there, there will be an endless stream of assassins swarming over like flies."
Frost felt a chill down his spine upon hearing this.
"Boss, should we immediately conduct a full-scale purge of Morgan's agencies in Philadelphia?"
"In Philadelphia, Timmy has already sent people to capture Cavendish."
Felix's gaze turned to the world map hanging on the wall, his eyes revealing murderous intent.
"But just capturing the agents is useless; to cut weeds, you must pull out the roots."
"Notify all company heads to bring more security with them when they go out."
"Don't worry, it won't last long."
As news of the assassination of Felix spread like wildfire across America, on the cobblestone streets of Fleet Street in London, the sound of hooves and carriage wheels grew increasingly dense.
A newsboy, waving a newspaper with ink still wet, was shouting at the top of his gravelly voice, which was in the midst of changing, on a street corner.
"Extra! Extra! The North American strategy of Morgan Bank has completely collapsed!"
"Two and a half million pounds turned to ashes! The whereabouts of depositors' funds are a mystery. Come and see, Gentlemen! Joint front page of The Times and The Daily Telegraph!"
A fat merchant preparing to head to the exchange stopped, tossed a coin, and grabbed a newspaper. His pupils instantly contracted upon catching sight of the large, bold, black font on the front page.
"Oh my God, my Lord..."
The fat merchant muttered to himself, his briefcase nearly falling to the ground.
Without any hesitation, he turned and sprinted toward a passing carriage, shouting as he ran: "To 22 Broad Street! Quick! Double fare for you!"
Similar scenes were playing out simultaneously in every corner of the City of London that morning.
In front of the four main branches established by Morgan Bank in London, the decency and order typical of English Gentlemen had completely vanished.
Hundreds of commoners, small shopkeepers, and artisans, like a frightened flock of sheep, were tightly blocking the closed oak doors of the bank.
They clutched their passbooks and deposit certificates tightly, squeezing forward desperately, with shouting and crying filling the air.
Behind a window on the second floor of the Third Branch, Branch Manager Charles Hughes was wiping the cold sweat constantly emerging from his forehead with a handkerchief.
"Mr. Hughes, the front door is about to be pushed down! The tellers are asking if they should open the door?"
His deputy ran into the office, his face full of terror.
"Open the door? With what are we supposed to open it!"
Hughes grabbed the deputy by the collar.
"The cash in the vault is less than one hundred thousand pounds right now, and I suspect the deposit slips in the hands of those people outside add up to at least three hundred thousand. If we open the door, we will be completely emptied out within half an hour!"
"Then what do we do? The police are already outside maintaining order, but there are more and more people. If we don't give them an explanation, they will burn this place down!"
Hughes gritted his teeth and paced back and forth in the office twice.
He knew that he absolutely could not announce a suspension of redemption, as that would immediately trigger a full-scale riot. Not only would he be ruined, but the entire Morgan Bank would face a collapse of credit in an instant.
"Go tell the tellers to open two side doors."
"But post a notice. Say that due to internal account reconciliation, today's withdrawal limit for all accounts is restricted to ten pounds. Anything over ten pounds requires an appointment three days in advance!"
"Limit withdrawals? But that will make them even crazier!"
"Do as I say! This is the only way!"
Hughes pushed the deputy away and shook his head helplessly.
"You stay here and keep watch. I must go to the boss's mansion immediately!"
Hughes grabbed his hat, slipped out through the back door of the bank, and jumped into a carriage that had been waiting.
When Hughes's carriage arrived at the Morgan mansion at 22 Broad Street, he discovered that he was not the only one coming to seek help.
The managers of the other three branches, Edward Cole and William Bates, were already waiting in the foyer.
And it wasn't just them.
Hughes glanced at the half-open door of the reception room, and the ominous feeling in his heart amplified to the extreme.
Sitting in the reception room were seven or eight figures of some standing in the London business world.
The most prominent among them were Thomas Wentworth, who was engaged in grain imports, and Richard Gable, who controlled several ocean-going fleets.
These people were all major clients of Morgan Bank, and their total deposits were enormous.
Hughes and the other two branch managers exchanged glances, and everyone saw despair in each other's eyes.
They had come running to the boss at this time; anyone with half a brain could guess that the bank was out of money at the bottom.
"Oh, look who it is."
Wentworth, sitting on the sofa, let out a mocking laugh as he looked at the three of them.
"The three most capable branch managers of Morgan Bank. Not counting pounds at the counter early in the morning, but running here for a meeting. It seems the things mentioned in the newspapers aren't all bullshit."
Hughes stood there awkwardly, not knowing how to answer.
Just then, the inner door of the reception room was pushed open.
Junius Morgan walked in with an extremely steady gait. No panic could be seen on his face; he was even holding a cup of steaming black tea.
"Gentlemen, good morning."
Morgan walked to the head of the table and sat down, his gaze sweeping calmly over everyone present.
"Junius."
Richard Gable had no mood for beating around the bush; he slapped that copy of The Daily Telegraph onto the coffee table.
"Cut the hypocritical pleasantries. We need a definitive explanation. The newspaper says your industrial investment in America has completely failed, and you've lost two and a half million pounds. What is going on? Did you use our reserve funds?"
Facing this aggressive questioning, Morgan set down his teacup and let out a relaxed laugh.
"Ha... Richard. You've been in this circle for thirty years, and you still believe the lies fabricated by those poor, uneducated writers who make a living selling newspapers?"
Morgan's tone was filled with condescending arrogance.
"The investment in America did indeed encounter a small problem." He admitted part of the truth, mixing fact with fiction.
"The person in charge I sent encountered a fire at a steel mill in Ohio. Maybe, roughly, a loss of over one hundred thousand pounds. But this was just a venture capital investment, completely within the tolerance of the bank's own funds."
"Over one hundred thousand? But the newspaper says..."
Wentworth frowned.
"What do those financial tabloids know!"
Morgan interrupted him, his gaze becoming sharp.
"They are creating panic for the sake of sales! Gentlemen, are you not aware of what Morgan Bank's main business is? We hold a large amount of French government compensation bonds, and we underwrite the highest quality railway projects in Europe!"
Morgan stood up and stared at these businessmen.
"How large is the scale of Morgan Bank? Over two million pounds of liquid capital is merely a few months of turnover in our eyes. Would we be short of this little bit of money?"
Gable still had some doubts.
"But, Junius. Your three branch managers just rushed over here. Also, when I passed Lombard Street on my way here, there was already a long line at the door of your bank. I heard that withdrawal limits have already been imposed. If funds are sufficient, why limit them?"
Hughes's heart jumped to his throat, and he nervously looked at his boss.
Morgan didn't even blink, naturally throwing out an excuse.
"The limit is to protect your interests."
"Because of the malicious rumors this morning, many uninformed grassroots clients have started a blind run on the bank. If I open up the cash supply, it will only benefit those rumor-mongers and disrupt the normal financial order of London. At the same time, it is to retain core funds to prioritize the settlement for major clients like yourselves at any time."
Morgan's words struck the psychology of these big businessmen.
In their eyes, the interests of commoners were worthless; as long as their own funds were specially protected, that was enough.
And to completely dispel their doubts, Morgan continued to throw out bait.
"Gentlemen, I know everyone has concerns. How about this..." Morgan sat back in his chair.
"To compensate for the trouble caused to everyone by this absurd report today, and to demonstrate my, Junius Morgan's, credibility, from today on, the interest on funds deposited by everyone in Morgan Bank will be increased by one percentage point. And with my personal reputation and all the assets of the Morgan Family as collateral, there will absolutely be no problems."
High interest, plus personal reputation guarantee.
With this combination of moves, the atmosphere in the reception room visibly eased significantly.
The businessmen exchanged glances, all silently calculating the extra one percentage point of profit in their hearts.
"Since you've said so, Junius." Wentworth leaned back on the sofa. "Then we are certainly willing to trust your reputation; after all, you haven't been in London for just a day or two."
Most of the businessmen were bluffed.
After all, they didn't want to withdraw funds at this time to re-negotiate interest rates at other banks.
And in bankruptcy liquidation law, large depositors like them have priority for repayment.
Even if something really happened to Morgan, those high-value bonds would be paid to them first.
But Richard Gable stood up; he was a famously conservative person.
"Sorry, Junius. Although your terms are very tempting, I happen to have a final payment for an ocean-going fleet that needs to be settled recently. I don't want to take any risks." Gable looked at Morgan.
"I need to withdraw my fifty thousand pounds in deposits; I want it this afternoon."
Hearing this, Hughes's face turned pale instantly. Fifty thousand pounds...
The Third Branch couldn't even come up with half of that right now.
Morgan's heart was also bleeding.
But he knew that at this moment, there could be absolutely no hesitation.
"Of course, Richard."
Morgan agreed without hesitation, his face still wearing that calm smile.
"Hughes, remember Mr. Gable's words. Prepare the fifty thousand pounds this afternoon and send it to his office by armored carriage."
Morgan turned to look at Hughes, his eyes carrying a warning with great pressure.
Then he turned back to look at Gable, his tone carrying a trace of sarcasm.
"However, Richard, I hope you don't regret losing the interest. Funds can move in and out at any time, but trust is a one-way street."
Gable snorted and picked up his hat.
"Only when the money is in my own vault can I sleep well. I'm leaving first, Gentlemen."
With Gable's departure, the others also walked out of 22 Broad Street with satisfaction.