The carriage rolled smoothly along the streets of the Kensington District.
Mary leaned back against the soft cushions, her mind still savoring everything that had happened today. The trace of a smile hanging at the corner of her lips had never once faded.
It was only when the familiar gates came into view that she slowly composed her expression, once again donning the mask that belonged to [Mary Morstan].
She pushed open the carriage door and stepped down, where the familiar butler was already waiting at the entrance.
"Welcome home, miss." The butler gave a slight bow, his manner deferential.
"Mm." Mary nodded faintly, then slipped off her coat and handed it to a servant standing nearby.
"Is Father back?" she asked offhandedly, playing the part of a daughter concerned for her father.
"The master is still receiving a guest in the study, miss," the butler answered truthfully.
"A guest?" Mary's steps paused ever so slightly. "With whom?"
"It is the editor-in-chief of The Guardian, Mr. Edgar."
At those words, the girl's brow furrowed almost imperceptibly.
"I see." She nodded, her expression returning to normal. She asked nothing further, simply walking straight toward her own room upstairs.
Mary pushed open the door to her room, tossed her schoolbag carelessly onto the sofa, and then let herself sink into it as well.
She closed her eyes, savoring this brief moment of quiet, yet her mind refused to fully relax.
"Always making a fuss over unnecessary things..."
She grumbled under her breath.
She wasn't surprised by Edgar's visit.
After all, she had sent him such a generous gift; by every measure of sentiment and reason, he ought to come and thank her in person.
Even though she would rather he hadn't shown up at all—ideally letting the whole matter rot away in his stomach.
But in Edgar's eyes, no doubt, what she had done had likely been at her father's instruction.
At the thought of what she might have to face next, Mary couldn't help but frown, letting out a soft sigh.
How utterly tiresome.
Since things had already come to this, she might as well attend to some proper business first.
She stood up, walked to her writing desk, pulled open a drawer, and took out a locked wooden box.
The key turned, the lid opened, and inside lay several letters that had yet to be sent.
She picked up a fountain pen and, on a blank sheet of writing paper, swiftly wrote out a single line of instruction—in a hand utterly unlike her own delicate script.
Once all this was done, she folded the paper, placed it into an ordinary envelope, and then sealed it.
Next, she walked to the door and gave it a light knock.
"Miss?" came the voice of her personal maid from beyond the door.
"Mel, send this letter out for me." Mary handed the envelope over. "The same place as before."
"Understood." The maid gave a slight nod, took the envelope from her hand, and then tucked it away close against her body.
But she did not leave right away, instead continuing:
"Oh, and miss, there's one more thing."
"What is it?"
"The master has asked you to come to the study."
Hearing this, Mary fell silent for a moment.
"Understood."
She closed the door to her room, then set off toward the study where her father was.
···
"Father." Mary pushed open the door to the study.
Inside, Arthur Morstan and Editor-in-Chief Edgar were seated on the sofa, engaged in pleasant conversation.
Seeing Mary enter, the two of them stopped talking at the same moment, both wearing smiles.
"Ah, our heroine of the hour has returned." Edgar rose to his feet and extended his hand toward Mary of his own accord.
"Good afternoon, Miss Morstan. I was just speaking of you with your father."
"Good afternoon, Mr. Edgar." Mary smiled and shook his hand—a touch, then released.
"Sit, Mary." Arthur gestured to the empty seat beside him.
Mary sat down at his side, her posture elegant and proper.
"Mr. Edgar was just now praising you to me," Arthur said, his tone carrying a few undisguised traces of pride.
"He says you're young, decisive, with remarkable courage and daring..."
Yet Mary caught the deeper meaning beneath his words.
"Father flatters me," Mary said with a faint smile. "I only did a few small things, that's all."
"You're far too modest, Miss Morstan," Edgar put in from the side.
"If not for that piece of intelligence of yours, The Guardian could never have seized the upper hand in this war of public opinion."
"But as I recall... both The Times and The Guardian received the news all the same, didn't they?"
Mary asked, feigning puzzlement.
"In that case, where does this 'upper hand' come from?"
"That may be so," Edgar neither confirmed nor denied it.
"But we learned of the matter before The Times did, and so, when it came to distributing the papers, we had prepared a greater portion than they had.
Not only that—when it came to layout and wording, we also had ample time to put in the extra effort.
Being better prepared means we could cover a wider market, seizing the readers' attention at the very first moment.
The Times may have gotten the news too, but their response was, after all, a step slow.
When it comes to the timeliness of the news, even a difference of a single minute is enough to decide victory or defeat."
"I see." Mary nodded, not pressing the matter further.
For the conversation that followed, she essentially served only as an accompaniment, chiming in with a word or two now and then.
The bulk of the talking was still done by Arthur Morstan and Edgar.
The information Mary had passed along had earned The Guardian a handsome profit, and The Guardian was naturally glad to seize the opportunity to trumpet the fine image of the Morstan Enterprise before the public.
Mutual benefit.
Business, after all, is nothing to be ashamed of.
A dozen or so minutes later, Edgar finally rose to take his leave, thoroughly satisfied.
Arthur personally saw him to the door, and only after confirming that the man's carriage had already driven off from the estate did he turn and head back into the study.
He shut the door, then turned around.
In the study, only father and daughter remained.
Mary still sat quietly on the sofa, holding that cup of now-lukewarm black tea, her posture elegant, like a flawless porcelain doll.
Arthur walked up before her and looked down at her from above.
"Tell me," he began slowly, "why did you do it?"
Arthur Morstan sat down across from Mary.
"I don't mean to blame you, Mary. You did very well this time.
We not only secured further support from The Guardian, but at the same time, we also repaid that little thief's favor.
In terms of results, there's nothing wrong with what you did.
It's only that, I feel, before doing something like this, perhaps you ought to have informed me first—wouldn't you agree?
I can't help but feel that lately you seem to have grown a little... too free. Is that merely my imagination?"
At these words, Mary drew in a deep breath, lifted her head, and met Arthur Morstan's eyes.
"I'm sorry, Father."
the girl said softly.
No excuses, no rebuttals.
"No, there's no need to apologize, Mary, my daughter. You've done nothing wrong."
Arthur Morstan shook his head.
"That you can take the initiative to think of the family, to act from the family's perspective—this gladdens me greatly.
It's only that you're still young, and the waters of London run deep. There is much you have never experienced.
Sometimes, the choice you believe to be correct may conceal undercurrents you could never imagine.
I don't want you to plunge yourself into danger over a moment's impulse."
Like a loving father, he gently patted his daughter's slightly stiffened shoulder.
"I'm very glad that you can have ideas of your own," Arthur continued, his voice carrying a few well-measured traces of gratification.
"But in many cases, the strength of one person alone is limited.
You need to learn to rely on others—especially to rely on your father.
I will always be the most solid support you can trust in."
"I understand."
"Good," Arthur smiled with satisfaction, the force in his hand easing a few degrees more.
"As for the matter of Moriarty, let it rest here for now.
Since we've already repaid the favor, there's no longer any need to have any contact with him.
That fellow is a madman, a madman who could lose control at any moment. Staying away from him will do you no harm."
"Very well, Father." Mary, all the while, maintained that humble and obedient bearing.
"And another thing," he paused, his tone shifting casually to a different topic.
"Lately, you seem to have been getting on rather well at school?"
The instant she heard this, Mary's body stiffened almost imperceptibly.
But she quickly steadied herself.
"Yes, Father," she answered. "The coursework isn't particularly difficult."
"I'm not referring to the coursework." Arthur Morstan looked at her.
"I'm referring to your interpersonal relationships."
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