Charles Wheatstone originally thought that the most terrifying experience of his life was that ti at the Royal Society when he was reading his scientific achievents aloud, but because his volu was too low, the audience mistakenly thought he was there to sell snuff.
But he was wrong.
From the mont he set foot on Yellow Chrysanthemum Street, he realized that there were things in this world more terrifying than giving a lecture at the Royal Society.
As for why he ca to this place.
It all started with a note left for him by a superior at the University of London.
At the ti, Wheatstone was buried in hard work in the physics lab at the University of London, when suddenly the lab apprentice inford him that Dean Hastings had called him to the office.
However, when Wheatstone arrived at the dean’s office, he found a note stuck to the office door.
The note said that Arthur had sothing urgent to attend to, but he was anxious to discuss so matters with Wheatstone. So, he arranged to et Wheatstone at 8:30 tonight at the intersection in front of the Old Mama’s Inn on Yellow Chrysanthemum Street, and he stressed that Wheatstone must not be late.
Although Wheatstone had been living in London for quite so ti, it did not an he was familiar with every district of London.
At that ti, he thought "Yellow Chrysanthemum" was so kind of noble horticultural variety, and "Yellow Chrysanthemum Street" might be a high-end London district nad after Dutch tulips.
It wasn’t until a "lady" dressed in lace stockings with a voice rougher than his pinched his behind that he realized he’d walked into the mouth of a wolf; he’d co to a place he shouldn’t have co.
Arthur Hastings, that bastard, was probably trying to play another prank on him!
"Well, young sir, the little hat you’re wearing is quite exquisite. Did you style your hair just to find ?"
The person approached coquettishly, placing one hand on Wheatstone’s waist and the other brazenly sliding down the seam of his shirt.
"Don’t, don’t touch !" Wheatstone shuddered violently, jumping up as if he were electrified, protecting his backpack with one hand and tugging at his tie with the other, his face as pale as London’s morning fog: "You—you’ve got the wrong person, I’m not one of them...not the kind you think..."
"Are you shy?" The "lady" giggled with a creak: "What’s your na? Co, tell , how do you want to play tonight?"
"I—I—I, I don’t want anything..."
No sooner had Wheatstone finished speaking than a voice, both loathso and reassuring, sounded behind him: "Sorry, this gentleman is with tonight."
This voice was like salvation cast down by God, and Wheatstone quickly turned around, seeing Arthur in a black tailcoat, appearing at the corner of the street.
He glanced down at his pocket watch and mumbled: "Right on ti, Charles. Luckily I didn’t keep you waiting."
"Oh..." The "lady" hesitated for a mont, then cast a flirting glance at Arthur, sizing him up: "So he’s your friend. You should’ve said so earlier, I don’t snatch people from those who already have partners."
Saying this, he blew a kiss at Arthur and winked at Wheatstone: "Sir, if you ever tire of him, rember to co find . Third house in Beech Alley, after you enter, just tell them you’re looking for Lady Rose."
After speaking, Lady Rose swayed her hips and left, with a scent of overpowering perfu lingering in the air.
As for Wheatstone, he sat on a wooden crate by the roadside, as if he had just been rescued from the electric chair, his eyes glazed, looking utterly wooden.
"Hey, Charles." With a flick to ignite his lighter, Arthur puffed on his pipe as he walked over: "Don’t sit here. Let’s go."
It took so ti for Wheatstone to recover from the shock, wiping the cold sweat off his forehead and glaring at Arthur.
"You..." He finally found his voice, and the saliva he spewed was nearly enough to wash Arthur’s face: "Are you out of your damn mind?!"
This could be the loudest Wheatstone had ever shouted in his life, so much so that his glasses bounced on the bridge of his nose: "Why on earth did you choose the eting place... in such a place? Do you even know what that person... did to ?"
Arthur was not surprised by Wheatstone’s reaction. He simply replied in his usual infuriatingly calm tone: "If you really want to give the details, I’m all ears."
Hearing this, Wheatstone found all the curses lodged in his throat.
Angrily pointing a finger at Arthur’s nose, his hand trembled in the air for a long ti, yet he couldn’t utter a complete sentence.
Wheatstone’s mouth opened and closed, opened and closed: "You—you... you are simply... playing dumb while being fully aware!"
Arthur, with a pipe in his mouth, unhurriedly blew the dust off his sleeve: "It’s just a pinch on the bottom. Is it that big of a deal?"
"What did you say?!"
"I asked if it’s that big of a deal?" Arthur said nonchalantly: "Back when I was nearly shot under the Tower of London, my reaction wasn’t as big as yours."
"Exactly!" Wheatstone cursed: "Of course you didn’t react! You were lying in a coffin, stiff as a board! How could you react to anything?"
With Wheatstone’s roar ringing out, under the gas light on the street, several "Yellow Chrysanthemum Countesses" turned their interested gazes over.
"Are they having a fight?"
"Such a sweet little voice—arguing with such flair."
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