I loaded the Mysticism panel.

Lady Mary's revenge was soon fulfilled.

In Whitehall, Sir Archie's proudest achievement in his life was that, throughout his many years in politics, he had never signed a document he was unwilling to take responsibility for.

That morning he put on his top hat and tucked the black umbrella under his arm.

The window frame of the second-floor conference room is drafty, but every time the application is submitted, it is postponed to the following year.

So he always brought an umbrella to meetings, and he would stick the tip of the umbrella into the window crack to reduce the wind.

He glanced at his watch and pushed open the office door.

The first thing that hit him was the heat, and Jazz stood on the threshold, stunned.

The marble beneath his feet was so hot it could heat up shoe polish.

The four walls are inlaid with blue and white bricks, and seven or eight men are sitting on a bench on the left.

These seven or eight men had nothing on them except bath towels.

"...Jazz?"

The person furthest inside squinted in the steam.

The jazz recognized the face.

Last month, this gentleman submitted a petition regarding the transshipment of leather, which was suppressed by him on the grounds that the time was not yet ripe.

"Good afternoon," the jazz man heard himself say.

"You actually come here to take a bath too."

The gentleman draped the towel over his shoulder, speaking in a warm tone.

"You should have said so earlier. Tuesdays are when the sauna is least crowded."

Jazz awkwardly turned around to turn the doorknob.

The door opened to reveal a storage room for bath towels.

He closed the door and opened it again; it was still a storage room.

The jazz musician, wearing a top hat and carrying a black umbrella, repeatedly opened and closed the door of a sauna room at 50 degrees Celsius.

The man behind him spoke up: "To get out, go through the front hall."

The lobby of this upscale bathhouse was covered with a red carpet, and an elderly woman sat behind the reception desk.

She looked up and found that a gentleman in a suit and tie had walked out of the sauna. His hair was completely greasy and he was covered in sweat.

"Sir, please show your luggage tag."

"I don't have a clothing tag."

"A sixpence fee is required for loss."

"Madam, I have never stored any clothes."

"Sir, our shop has been open for more than ten years."

The woman turned to the next page of the ledger and tapped the grid with her pen.

"Those who don't store their clothes never come out from inside."

The jazz took out sixpence, pushed open the glass door, and found a person standing at the bottom of the steps with a camera hanging around his neck.

This is a photographer from "Beijing Pictorial" who was staking out this street for a feature called "Wartime Public Health," but he didn't manage to take a single usable photo.

The magnesium powder sparkled, but the jazz hat remained neatly worn on his head.

The photographer later cursed in the darkroom.

On the steps in the lower right corner of the negative, a black cat with golden eyes, which appeared out of nowhere, was crouching, taking up the entire lower edge of the composition.

Fisher rushed into the study room with the evening paper in his hand.

"Williams!"

He slammed the newspaper on the table, and Richard's bottle of ink wobbled.

"Look at this."

Richard glanced down at it.

The second edition features a large photograph of a gentleman in formal attire standing at the entrance of a bathhouse, his expression one of utter astonishment.

"What's so funny?"

"Look at the caption below."

The caption reads: "Sir Archie emerged from a high-class public bath at 11:00 a.m. today."

The jazz told this newspaper that he was originally going to the conference room on the second floor.

"Maybe he went to the wrong place?"

Fisher slammed his fist on the table.

"It's only thirty steps from his office to the second-floor conference room, but to get to that bathhouse, you have to cross almost half of the capital!"

Catherine came in from the corridor at that moment, with her coat draped over her shoulder.

She glanced at the newspaper, opened her notebook, and wrote a line.

"This is the fourth one already."

Fisher's laughter froze on the spot: "What, a fourth one?"

Catherine turned the page.

"This morning, a deputy minister went to his office but walked into the soup kitchen over at Whitechapel."

The story of this vice minister is the most widely known.

He pushed open the door and saw a large pot steaming hot, with two lines stretching from the pot all the way outside the shed.

Someone slipped a tin bowl into his hand.

"Sir, please move to the back of the line."

"I didn't come here..."

"Move to the back of the line!"

He stood in line for nearly forty minutes.

Midway through, he tried to explain who he was to the person in front of him, but the person didn't even turn their head.

"Last week, there was this guy who claimed to be the Archbishop of Canterbury, and he drank two big bowls of liquor that day."

The vice minister also drank a bowl at the end.

He told a reporter from Morning Post that the soup contained barley, radish, and a hint of salted meat, which was better than he had expected.

On Wednesday night, a gentleman from the Press Censorship Board pushed open the door and walked into the side wing of the theater.

A pantomime is being performed on stage.

He took two steps forward before realizing he was on stage, looking up at the sea of ​​people below.

On the third-floor balcony, a theater critic led the applause.

The gentleman in charge of the review stood there stunned for a moment, then reflexively took off his top hat and bowed to the audience.

The entire audience erupted in cheers.

The review for the second day was written like this:

"The gentleman in formal attire who remains silent, bows, and retreats in the middle of the second act is the most striking element of the entire play."

"This newspaper hopes to continue seeing this character in future episodes."

The gentleman wrote a letter to the theater critic explaining that he was not an actor in the play.

The theater critics also published the letter in the same column, which amplified the dramatic effect.

By Friday, such incidents had become countless.

Montagu was telling Richard what his uncle had said in the canteen.

"Yesterday afternoon, they sent people to open every single door on the second floor."

"And the result?"

The blond youth put down his fork:

"The result is that every time I open the door a hundred times, it's always the corridor."

"What if someone else drives?"

"Several different people have come and gone, but it's still the same corridor."

Montagu tapped the edge of the plate with the tip of his knife.

"If those gentlemen were to push it themselves..."

Richard bent down and cut the beef.

This piece is softer than the last one, which means the cold storage inventory has been depleted.

Montagu suddenly spoke again.

"My uncle said that the most important lesson to learn in Whitehall these days is to figure out what you shouldn't have done over the past few years."

Richard bought all the newspapers for the next few days at the newsstand and flipped through them one by one.

More than a dozen gentlemen went to places they shouldn't have gone; three of them retired early, and two resigned from their jobs.

One person's photo was published three times, and the third time the newspaper caption only said: "Why is it him again?"

Richard finished flipping through the last copy and stacked it up again.

That deputy minister signed off on the relief cuts last year;

That gentleman from the censorship office has withdrawn several plays in the past two years...

Each of them was sent to a place they were supposed to visit.

Richard had actually seen this teleportation technique before.

He had just come out of the inner alley of Flower Moon Street a week ago, and the withered leaf Matthew had given him in his palm hadn't even warmed up yet.

Richard walked to the main street entrance and was about to raise his hand to flag down a car.

"Don't rush off."

Matthew emerged from the alley that had been a dead end, his hands in his pockets.

"Mr. Kelly."

"Call him Matthew."

Matthew looked up.

"I saw Donald's two hands."

The tailor shop at number two was half burned down; the old man there had sewed clothes for half his life.

"Do you know what the people who smashed those shops are doing now?"

"Eat at home," Matthew answered himself.

"I'll go to work as usual tomorrow morning, and at noon I'll brag to people at the factory gate about how powerful I am."

"When his grandson asks about it in the future, he will say that his grandfather did something important for the country that year."

"The teacher is meticulous in her work; she finds it dirty to handle hundreds of idiots who were pushed out by others."

"So you..."

"So I'll probably be thinking about venting my anger," Matthew said.

He said this calmly, and the man's expression turned cold.

"I come as soon as the teacher calls me. Actually, I don't really feel anything. I just feel like I should come."

Matthew smiled, his sunburnt face relaxing, but Richard inexplicably felt it was somewhat fake.

"Let's do something fun together!"

This statement didn't carry a questioning tone.

"...Is it fun?"

"Yeah, that's right." Matthew said matter-of-factly.

"Those hundreds of people walked down this street, and everyone felt that they were walking on a particularly upright and righteous path."

A police whistle came from across the street, two long and one short.

Matthew gestured in that direction with his lip.

"Since the police aren't doing anything, why don't we two take action?"

"What do you want me to do?"

"I don't know either."

Richard raised his head.

"Really, I don't know," Matthew said frankly.

"The teacher didn't explain, and I haven't thought about it yet."

"Here's what we'll do: I'll throw you in front of those people, and you can do whatever you want with me."

"You don't have to do anything. Just let me know when the time comes, and I'll take you straight to your school dormitory."

It extended its index finger and waved it in front of Richard.

"However, I guess you probably won't."