When Oliver walked out carrying the dried apples, he still felt a sense of trance.
There had been no shock, no reprimand—only a flat, simple, “Oh.”
Aside from instructing him not to tell anyone else about the matter, Mr. Isaacs didn’t seem to give any other feedback.
For a moment, Oliver found himself worrying again.
In his eyes, Mr. Isaacs was undoubtedly a good person. He was generous, kind, open-handed, and friendly; he had no faults, except perhaps for a lack of… scheming. He seemed exceptionally naive.
During his breaks, Oliver had once snuck off to look at other factories. There were children there too, but their treatment was nothing like his.
They looked gaunt and exhausted, their faces streaked with filth. The burden of labor, thrust upon them too heavily and too early, had crushed them to the point where they didn’t even have the strength to speak.
They told Oliver that most factory owners were like that—they wouldn’t stop until they had squeezed every last drop of profit out of them.
A kind-hearted factory owner was nothing more than a legend.
After all, compared to the meager gratitude of workers, stuffing more money into one’s own pocket was far more important!
Although he had always been proud of Mr. Isaacs’s good heart and simplicity, at this moment, Oliver wished he could hollow out the cunning from those villains and install it into Mr. Isaacs instead.
He was worried sick and could only tap his own head. “Stupid, think of something! Hurry!”
If he could think of a good way to tell Mr. Isaacs, wouldn’t they be able to avoid this trouble?
Arna, who was the object of Oliver’s concern, was indeed worrying as well.
But her worry wasn’t about Fagin and the trouble he brought; it was something else entirely.
Arna knew that game developers tended to be lazy. As for developers, it wasn’t surprising for them to get anything wrong. After all, the world was just one giant, makeshift stage crew. Errors were common; it was the lack of errors that was rare.
Sending out the wrong copy, messing up the gacha pools, setting the safe zones backwards, making easy mode harder than hell mode…
But she really hadn’t expected the developers to be *this* lazy!
Arna had already run into six other children that afternoon, and the one currently in front of her was the seventh.
The little girl, named Bella, who looked quite pious, was one of the few in the factory who frequently went home. According to her, her mother had once worked as a weaver at the Isaacs Textile Factory for a time.
Her way of addressing Arna was more old-fashioned, different from the others, likely learned from her mother.
But that wasn’t the point.
The point was that this little girl was currently lowering her voice, calling her “Master Isaacs” while mysteriously claiming she had discovered a big secret!
“I heard it, my mother told me, she said to tell Master Isaacs right away,” she chirped, her voice light and crisp. “Someone said they’re going to teach you a lesson this Saturday—um, I think it has something to do with those thieves! Mother told me to tell you quickly!”
She stopped, seemingly trying hard to remember what else her parents had instructed, but for a moment, she couldn’t recall. She tapped her head in frustration and annoyance, as if the words were stuck in her throat and could be knocked loose.
Arna knelt down and patted her head.
“All right,” she sighed, saying gently, “I know.”
The panic in Bella’s eyes was replaced by confusion.
“You already know?” She blinked.
“Yes,” Arna said woodenly. “I know everything.”
Her little apprentices had repeated the same topic to her nine times throughout the day. Including Bella in front of her, it made exactly ten.
Bella’s brow furrowed.
She reached into her pocket and pulled out a dirty, squashed piece of toffee, placing it solemnly in Arna’s palm.
Arna’s sharp eyes recognized the candy as one she had distributed to the children last week.
“For luck,” Bella said seriously. “Eating candy brings good luck.”
“Thank you, Bella.” Arna took the candy and then ruffled her hair. “Go on back.”
Fortunately, she had only recruited ten apprentices; otherwise, the entire day might not have been enough for all these children to turn informant.
It wasn’t until she returned to Baker Street, finished dinner, and rested for a while that Arna finally complained about the situation to her two roommates.
“A full ten of them,” she said listlessly. “All afternoon, even when I tried to drink water or eat something, I’d be chased down by children. They were practically crawling out from every direction.”
Holmes, who was fiddling with his violin, didn’t even bother to open his eyes.
“Ten informants, really?” His lip twitched. “Are you running a spy network? I must say, I’m impressed. Usually, the pigeons at Scotland Yard aren’t nearly so enthusiastic.”
The ever-sympathetic Watson gave him a glare and set down his pen.
“Ten children?” He poured Arna a glass of brandy and echoed, “It seems you’ve become the most popular factory owner in Whitechapel, haven’t you?”
“I’d rather I wasn’t,” Arna said, snatching the glass and draining more than half in one go. “First it was Lucy—the one with the mechanical talent—then Doug, then Oliver… and finally Bella. She even gave me a toffee as a lucky charm.”
She said dejectedly, “This wasn’t exactly my dream.”
“And what is your dream?” Holmes was still tuning his violin. “To become a confessional for petty criminals?”
“I want to be a great factory owner!” Arna said indignantly, her cheeks flushing from the alcohol.
She couldn’t find any biscuits, so she gave up on the idea of throwing one at him. “At the very least, it shouldn’t involve children crawling under my desk to tell me Fagin is going to do this or Fagin is going to do that.”
“Well then, our aspiring tycoon,” Holmes finally looked up, “we can see one thing very clearly from this: Fagin’s reputation and control are obviously slipping. In my day, children would have been dead before they could turn informant.”
Arna curled her lip, scoffing at his feigned seniority. “In your day? Last Tuesday? Or today?”
Watson rubbed his temples, finally finding a moment to interject. “The real question is—what do you plan to do? You can’t just…”
“Wing it?” Arna waved her hand lazily. “I think it’ll be fine, given that Fagin doesn’t seem very bright, letting his plan leak like this.”
“No,” Holmes chuckled. “He simply failed to consider one thing.”
“What? That plans should be kept secret?” Arna looked at him.
To be honest, the secrecy of Fagin’s plan was indeed nothing to boast about.
“That children talk,” Holmes finished the sentence. With a slight movement of his arm, he made the violin let out a sharp note. “Especially when they are full.”
He also reassured the worried Watson. “Don’t worry, Isaacs’s creativity in solving this matter is trustworthy. Besides, statistically speaking, the likelihood of Fagin ending up in the River Thames is greater than him ending up in a safe.”
Arna leaned back, crossing her arms. “Yeah, relax, Watson. Actually, I have a plan.”
Holmes perked up. “Does it involve your axe?”
Arna: “…No.”
“The Gold Sword?”
“That would be a waste,” Arna said flatly.
“A fishhook?” Holmes continued to guess.
“No, and fishing rods don’t work like that!”
Holmes narrowed his eyes, scanning her up and down. “…Then what do you intend to do?”
“I plan to pretend to be drunk, wait for them to make their move, and then knock them all flat, catch them, and tie them up,” Arna said, clenching her fist and looking expectantly at the other two. “And then call Scotland Yard. How about that?”
Wasn’t that a perfect plan?
Holmes’s bow stopped abruptly, letting out a sharp screech.
His eyebrows shot up so high they nearly disappeared into his hairline. “Ah, the classic ‘let the criminals commit a felony and then beat them up’ strategy.”
He said unhurriedly, “It is remarkably excellent in its simplicity. It has only one flaw: a mistake during execution would be fatal.”
Watson sighed. “You can’t be serious, Isaacs… Look, Holmes has said these people are desperate criminals.”
“Especially Sykes; I’ve seen him once,” Holmes added cheerfully. “A powerful build. He could snap you in half the moment he sees you.”
Arna said dismissively, “Actually, none of them can fight.”
She gestured. “And I have a plan. A surprise.”
“That’s not a plan; it’s a suicide note,” Watson commented. “Holmes, say something.”
Holmes pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Ah, yes, let me summarize,” his voice was dangerously calm. “You intend to pretend to be unconscious from sedatives and alcohol in a room full of criminals—who will outnumber you at least three to one—and then you plan to single-handedly subdue them, bind them, and finally summon the authorities? Am I missing a part? For instance, do you plan to ignite some explosives or bring a gun?”
Arna considered this seriously for a moment and said regretfully, “That’s a very comprehensive summary, except for the part where I haven’t bought any explosives or guns.”
Besides, those guys’ combat power was likely lower than two slimes.
Single-handedly? It would be a breeze!
Watson made a choking sound. “Good God, Isaacs. Holmes didn’t mean it like that—”
Holmes suddenly made a gesture, cutting Watson off.
“Shh,” he said, placing the violin on the table. He tiptoed to the window and gently pulled the curtain back a fraction.
His eyes were sparkling, as if he had seen something interesting.
Curious, Arna sidled over and stood beside him to look down.
With just one look, she froze.
Watson looked at Holmes, then at Arna, and finally, unable to contain his curiosity, followed suit.
Upon seeing the woman hurrying down the street toward 221B Baker Street, his eyes widened as well.
“That’s… that’s Miss Nancy,” Watson murmured.
“Indeed,” Holmes let the curtain fall. “It seems we now have an eleventh informant.”
He raised his hand, silently counting down.
Three. Two. One.
The door downstairs was knocked upon.
Immediately following was the sound of Mrs. Hudson’s footsteps and the creak of the door being pulled open.
“Oh, Miss Nancy!” Her voice was warm but tinged with confusion. “What a surprise! Come in, dear. Though I’m afraid the gentlemen might have already retired…”
“Actually, I’ve come to visit you, Mrs. Hudson. I wanted to speak with you about something,” Nancy said politely, her fingers clutching her shawl. “Perhaps somewhere… a bit quieter.”