The sky over London was always shrouded in gray mist.
The sound of steam whistles on the River Thames was dull and long.
This was Fleet Street, the heart of the British Empire's journalism industry.
The entire street was permeated with the smell of printer's ink and low-quality coffee.
Late at night, in the back alley of a second-rate newspaper office called the "Cross Chronicle."
Several men wearing wool coats stood in the shadows.
One of them handed a heavy leather bag to the newspaper's editor-in-chief.
"This is the deposit. I want to see this manuscript on the front page tomorrow morning."
The man delivering the money spoke with a pure London accent, but his true identity was a senior intelligence officer for the Argyle Family's European intelligence network.
The editor-in-chief opened the bag, took a look at the bundles of pounds inside by the faint light of a street lamp, and couldn't help but swallow hard.
"This... the content here is too shocking. Publishing directly that Junius Morgan is a madman? This will invite lawsuits. Isn't this going a bit too far?" the editor-in-chief hesitated.
"The assets of Morgan Bank in North America have all been liquidated, and his cash flow in London has also been cut off. He is now a pauper who can't even afford legal fees. What are you afraid of?" the agent said coldly.
"Besides, it's not just your newspaper. Tomorrow morning, half of the newspapers in all of London will publish similar news. Don't you understand the principle that the law does not punish the masses?"
The editor-in-chief gritted his teeth and took the money bag.
On this street, there was enough money that they would even dare to print the Queen's scandals.
The next morning.
When the newsboys waved newspapers and shouted on the streets and alleys of London, the entire financial world and upper society of London completely exploded.
"The Daily Telegraph" supplement: "The End of a Multinational Banker? Morgan Bank's Capital Chain on the Verge of Breaking!"
"Morning Star" front page: "Crazy Revenge! The Mastermind Behind the Assassination Attempt on the President of America is a Wealthy London Merchant!"
Various sensational headlines filled people's eyes.
The content in the newspapers was extremely detailed; not only did it disclose the current situation of Old Morgan's disastrous defeat and bankruptcy in North America, but it also vividly described how he used millions of dollars to hire desperadoes to carry out automatic gunfire in the streets of New York, and finally sent people to assassinate President Ulysses S. Grant.
The Intelligence Department used extremely skillful rhetoric in the press release. They did not emphasize the demands of the American government, but instead focused on "Old Morgan's mental state."
The article portrayed Old Morgan as a madman who had become completely mentally deranged due to bankruptcy and having no heirs, hated everything, and was capable of killing people on the street at any moment.
Inside the Royal Exchange of London.
Well-dressed stockbrokers and bankers gathered together, whispering to each other, as the emotion of panic spread like a plague.
And in a private office on the second floor of the exchange.
The current head of one of the oldest native British banking families, the Lloyds Family, Richard, was standing in front of the window looking at the chaotic crowd below.
"Well done, it's simply perfect."
Richard turned around and said to several partners sitting on the sofa.
"Richard, do you really believe what the newspapers say, that Mr. Morgan went to assassinate the American President?" a partner asked with a frown.
"Whether he killed the American President or not, what does that have to do with us?" Richard sneered.
"What's important is that the newspapers say he is bankrupt. We have checked his account in the London interbank lending market; his funds have indeed bottomed out. To take revenge on that American named Argyle, he has drained every last drop of blood."
Richard's eyes were filled with the greed of a shark smelling blood.
"Morgan Bank still has many high-quality mortgage assets left in London. As long as he is completely disgraced, we can join forces to drive down the prices and gobble up all these assets. Give the order, let the newspapers we control also join this revelry. I want to make Morgan's name a pariah in London within three days!"
Driven by commercial interests, the Lloyds Family took the initiative to act as an accelerant for the fire started by Felix.
The news spread wider and wider, and became more and more mysterious.
By the fourth day, the panic was no longer limited to the financial district, but had spread directly to those wealthy areas of London that were extremely concerned about security.
In the famous Reform Club.
Several wealthy merchants and nobles who had previously had fierce conflicts with Old Morgan in business were restless.
"Have you read the newspapers? This old madman even dared to kill the heavily guarded American President. What else wouldn't he dare to do?" a chubby textile tycoon wiped the sweat from his forehead.
"I heard he is now hiding in a villa in the Kensington district, not even stepping out the door. Who knows if he is planning the next assassination inside?" another person chimed in.
"I cheated him out of a fortune in railway stocks ten years ago; if he holds a grudge and hires a few Irish thugs to come to my house and shoot, what then?"
"No! We cannot let such an extremely dangerous mad dog stay in London!"
"Right! He must be made to get out of England!"
Fear is the emotion most likely to make people lose their reason.
When these wealthy people with huge social influence began to feel their lives were threatened, the energy they unleashed was extremely astonishing.
In less than half a day.
Dozens of protest letters jointly signed by top wealthy merchants, nobles, and even some members of the House of Commons in London flew into the Prime Minister's office at 10 Downing Street like snowflakes.
Prime Minister Gladstone looked at the mountain of petitions on his desk, his face looking terribly gloomy.
He certainly knew about the storm of public opinion on the streets of London in the past few days. But he had originally thought this was just a small trick played by the Americans that would soon subside.
But he never expected that the local bankers Old Morgan had offended in London (such as the Lloyds Family) would take the opportunity to kick him while he was down.
He also didn't expect that those terrified wealthy people would erupt with such a huge wave of protest.
"Prime Minister."
The Foreign Secretary stood to the side, his expression extremely awkward.
"Now it is not just the business community; even the police commissioner of Scotland Yard has come to see me. They say the public is extremely panicked about a terrorist who has assassinated a head of state living in London. There have even been protest marches against Americans in several neighborhoods."
Gladstone rubbed his brow.
He suddenly realized that what he was holding in his hand was not at all a bargaining chip that could be used to leverage diplomatic gestures against the Americans.
But rather a super bomb with a lit fuse that could blow his cabinet to smithereens at any moment.
The friendship of George Peabody was indeed very valuable.
However, was it really worth offending so many powerful figures in the country for an Old Morgan who had already lost his utility value and had aroused public indignation throughout London?
"Fine, make the arrangements."
Gladstone sighed, knowing he had been cornered by that Argyle whom he had never met.
"Find that extradition note from the Americans that was suppressed earlier. Notify the Department of the Interior to send someone to the Kensington district."
The rain in the Kensington district was maddening.
Raindrops hammered heavily against the study's glass window, creating a dense drumming sound, as if countless invisible hands outside were trying to pry open the shell of the house.
Junius Morgan sat behind the large mahogany desk.
The tabletop was not piled high with bills of exchange and bond certificates from across Europe as usual; there was only a solitary kerosene lamp, emitting a faint and flickering halo of light.
The sound of the doorknob turning was exceptionally harsh in the deathly silent room.
The butler, Oliver, pushed open the door and walked in.
He held a silver tray, which contained a letter sealed with the British Royal crest. Oliver's face was deathly pale, and even his lips were trembling slightly.
"Sir."
"The people from the Department of the Interior are downstairs; they brought this."
Old Morgan did not reach for the letter.
He simply leaned back in his chair, his once sharp eyes now murky and filled with spiderweb-like bloodshot veins.
"It is an extradition order, right?"
Old Morgan's voice was surprisingly calm, as if he were discussing tomorrow's weather.
"They say... the outer perimeter guard of Scotland Yard has been withdrawn." Oliver looked sad.
"The ones taking over this house are special agents from the Foreign Office; they have given you two hours to pack your personal belongings. In two hours, a carriage will take you directly to the port of Southampton. There is a United States Navy mail ship waiting for you there."
Old Morgan suddenly laughed.
The laughter sounded like a rusty, broken bellows leaking air, echoing in the empty study.
"Two hours, that hypocritical son of a bitch William Gladstone. Last week, he was still assuring George that the British Empire would absolutely not yield to the pressure of those hicks in Washington. And now? Can't hold on anymore?"
Old Morgan tremblingly reached out and picked up the paper knife on the desk, playing with it nonchalantly.
"They are afraid, Oliver. Do you hear the sounds on the street outside?"
Oliver glanced at the tightly closed window.
Although separated by the thick glass, he could still faintly hear the noise coming from the distance.
It was the angry citizens of London and the thugs hired by wealthy merchants incited by the newspapers; they had already surrounded this house.
"The people outside say you are a madman."
Oliver lowered his head, not daring to look into his master's eyes.
"A madman? Yes, I am indeed a madman now."
Old Morgan threw the paper knife onto the desk, making a crisp metallic clinking sound.
"This is the method of that devil Argyle; he completely destroyed my reputation throughout Europe. That bastard Richard Lloyds, he must be celebrating with champagne at the club right now, right?"
Oliver did not know how to answer.
Just yesterday, the Lloyds Family united with several local London banks and forcibly bought out the last batch of Morgan Bank's mortgage assets on the exchange at an extremely low price.
The entire Morgan empire was carved up completely in just a few short days.
"Morgan Bank has gone bankrupt."
Old Morgan muttered to himself, looking at the ceiling with hollow eyes.
"Pierpont is dead, and my daughters are dead too. All dead."
Old Morgan suddenly sat up straight, his hands gripping the edge of the desk tightly, the veins on the back of his hands bulging high.
"I spent a lifetime, from a small merchant in Massachusetts, climbing step by step to the top of the City of London! I mingled with nobles, I underwrote government bonds for the Queen! I thought I had built an unshakeable empire!"
The corners of his eyes twitched, and his voice gradually became shrill.
"But now? Argyle only took a few years to tear my empire into pieces! He stole my railways, stole my funds, and slaughtered my children! And now, he wants to drag me back to Washington like a dead dog, letting those damn veterans spit at me under the gallows!"
Oliver stepped forward, his tone anxious.
"Sir, we still have a chance. I have a few reliable friends in France. As long as you can escape and change your identity..."
"Escape?"
Old Morgan interrupted Oliver, his eyes filled with a desperate, deathly silence.
"Where can I escape to? Newspapers all over Europe are printing my portrait. Argyle's intelligence network is like a pack of hounds that have smelled blood. If I step out of this house, before nightfall, my corpse will be floating in the River Thames."
Old Morgan pulled open the bottom drawer of the desk.
Oliver saw what was in the drawer, and his breath hitched.
It was a Colt Navy revolver; the bluing on the gun body had faded a bit, but it was extremely well-maintained.
Old Morgan took out a kraft paper envelope and pushed it to the edge of the desk.
"Inside are two thousand pounds in bearer bills of exchange; it is the last bit of clean money I have left. Argyle cannot trace the source of this money."
"Sir!" Oliver's eyes turned red.
"Listen to me, Oliver."
Old Morgan's tone became unprecedentedly stern.
"Take this money, do not go to the front door. Go through the coal delivery passage in the kitchen. Leave London, leave Britain. Go to South America or Asia. Never mention again that you knew Junius Morgan. Argyle will not let anyone connected to me go. Go!"
Oliver knew that Old Morgan's mind was made up.
After bowing deeply, the butler, who had served the Morgan Family for thirty years, grabbed the envelope and stumbled out of the study.
The study was once again left with only Old Morgan.
He picked up the heavy revolver.
He had bought this gun back in the day to protect his property, but he had never fired it.
He pulled back the hammer with his thumb very slowly.
"Click."
A crisp mechanical clicking sound rang out in the study.
Old Morgan turned his head and looked at the gray London sky outside the window. In his mind, images of Pierpont as a child flashed by, the ecstasy of earning his first pot of gold on Wall Street, and finally, all the images froze on the cold face of Felix Argyle.
"You win, devil."
Old Morgan aimed the muzzle at his own temple.
"Bang~"
The dull gunshot pierced through the rain curtain.
The study window glass buzzed from the vibration.
A shocking splash of bright red splattered onto the mahogany desk, slowly dripping down along the edge.
The agents from the Department of the Interior downstairs heard the gunshot, immediately drew their service weapons, rushed up the stairs, and kicked open the study door.
But it was all over.
The financial tycoon who once dominated the City of London was now slumped in the chair like a pile of mud.