Saturday morning.
While Russell was still deep in his dreams, a burst of urgent knocking shattered his quality sleep.
"Time to get up, Watson." Charlotte's voice rang out from the doorway.
"Time to go collect a debt."
Hearing this, Russell groggily opened his eyes, then walked to the door like a sleepwalker and opened it.
"Let's go," Charlotte urged. She had already changed into her going-out clothes, and the whole of her looked crisp and tidy.
"Give me a minute, I just woke up..." Russell yawned, then pointed to the sofa inside the room.
"Have a seat for a bit, I'll go wash my face."
At this, Charlotte looked up, glanced at the utterly-not-yet-awake Russell, and said nothing more, stepping straight inside.
This was the first time she had ever been inside Russell's room.
Compared to her own room, Russell's was astonishingly tidy.
Although the bed looked a little rumpled from his having just gotten up, the quilt was folded into a neat, perfect square.
On the desk, several specialized books borrowed from the library were arranged in an orderly fashion, with a fountain pen and a stack of manuscript paper beside them.
Everything was in perfect order, pleasing to the eye.
This left Charlotte feeling somewhat unaccustomed—disappointed, even.
She had assumed that this fellow, who was always sleeping in class and loved nothing more than to bicker with her whenever he had nothing better to do, would have at least a few interesting things in his room.
But now it seemed this was just an ordinary university student's bedroom—nothing more.
Oh, in fact, even a bit more boring than the average student's.
There wasn't even a single poster of an actress on the walls.
"What are you looking for?" Russell's voice came from the bathroom, interrupting Charlotte's observation.
"Nothing," Charlotte said, withdrawing her gaze and pulling out the chair in front of the desk to sit down. "Just admiring the monastery-like décor of your room."
"That only goes to show I lead a respectable lifestyle—unlike certain people, who always like to treat their own room as a chemistry laboratory."
Russell retorted indistinctly as he brushed his teeth.
Charlotte pursed her lips, didn't take the bait, and instead continued to wander about the room.
She came over to the desk, picked up the notebook lying on its surface, and curiously flipped it open.
What met her eyes was a full page of clear, neat handwriting—clearly not written by this fellow.
This was Mary's handwriting.
Charlotte could tell at a single glance.
She flipped through it curiously. Most of what was recorded were knowledge points that, to her, were unbearably dull—not even worth a closer look.
But flipping further back, there were actually a few things that were rather interesting.
For instance, Mary and Russell's discussion about that case involving Holly Davey; the pages even bore a crude floor plan the girl had drawn.
Charlotte raised an eyebrow, then flipped through some more.
On the pages slightly further back—near the very last few, in fact—she discovered something interesting.
To be precise, it was a few stick-figure doodles. From the delicate lines, they were Mary's handiwork.
It seemed that this model student would, on occasion, also let her mind wander in class.
The corners of Charlotte's mouth curled up slightly, her gaze falling on those few doodles.
Since the artist was her, the doodles' model went without saying.
The first stick figure was sprawled across a desk, with a "Z" symbol representing deep sleep floating above its head, and a pair of small cat ears thoughtfully drawn beside it.
The second sat on a sofa, a plate of snacks before it; the artist had even carefully added a few strokes near the stick figure's mouth, representing the act of chewing.
The third, the fourth... with just a few simple strokes, the postures of a certain lazy-dog university student around campus were captured vividly to the life.
Charlotte looked through them one by one, the trace of a smile on her face growing deeper and deeper.
Yet as she smiled and smiled, the expression on her face gradually turned complicated.
An emotion she couldn't quite name flickered through the bottom of her heart.
The girl hesitated for a moment, then turned her head and confirmed the direction of the bathroom with a glance.
After confirming that the fellow still had a while before he'd come out, Charlotte picked up the pen and, on that paper covered with stick figures, swiftly sketched a few strokes.
Just then, Russell walked out of the bathroom.
Wiping his face with a towel, he headed in Charlotte's direction.
"What are you looking at?"
"Nothing," Charlotte said, setting down the pen and closing the notebook, returning it to its original spot—her movements so quick it seemed as if she were covering something up.
"Just admiring Miss Mary's beautiful handwriting—it's practically as neat as print."
At this, Russell raised an eyebrow, his gaze lingering on that notebook for a moment.
"All right."
Watching his utterly oblivious manner, Charlotte felt, for some reason, an inexplicable surge of irritation rising in her heart.
She stood up and pushed the chair back into place.
"Since you're done, then let's get going, cat boy."
"Hm? What was that?"
Russell was stunned, but Charlotte's figure had already vanished out the doorway.
"Hold on, wait for me—I haven't changed my clothes yet."
The two of them once again arrived at Lloyds Bank.
With the experience of last time, this time Russell simply wrote down the all-purpose reason "[Deposit]" on the registration form.
Then, under the security guard's slightly hesitant gaze, he led Charlotte straight in, pushing the door open.
Walking in openly and boldly.
The two had a clear purpose for this trip. They went straight up to the second floor and came before that familiar door.
Charlotte didn't knock; she pushed the door straight open and walked in.
Inside the office, George Adler was sitting behind his desk, a copy of the Financial Times in hand, leisurely savoring his coffee.
The instant he heard the door open, he first frowned, then looked up to confirm—assessing whether the visitor was a client.
When he saw that the arrivals were Charlotte and Russell, the displeasure and contempt on his face grew even more pronounced.
"Knocking is the most basic courtesy, you two," he said mockingly.
"We're only here to make a deposit, Mr. Adler."
Russell spoke before Charlotte could, an innocent smile on his face as he pulled out a chair of his own accord and sat down.
"And, while we're at it, to have a little chat with you."
"For ordinary business, please go to the tellers at the front desk, Mr. Watson."
"But I just want you to help me—is that not allowed? As the director, you must surely be more practiced at this business than a front-desk teller, no?"
At this, George set down his newspaper, his gaze falling on Russell with contempt.
"I cannot do everything myself, and still less can I waste precious time on trifling matters of no consequence, Mr. Watson."
"If I had to personally handle everything, then why would Lloyds Bank hire so many people?"
He paused, then continued:
"What's more, if I recall correctly, you already made a deposit once last week."
"What can I say," Russell spread his hands, "I've taken on a big job recently. I'm a bit flush at the moment."
George gave a cold snort and turned his gaze toward Charlotte, who had remained silent the entire time at his side.
"And what about you, Miss Holmes? Also here to make a deposit?"
"I'm only here to keep my assistant company—he's just come into a small fortune."
Charlotte said indifferently, arms folded across her chest, leaning back against the chair in a languid posture.
"If that's the case, then I think the two of you should go down to the lobby."
George's tone had already taken on a few notes of showing them the door.
"I still have work to attend to shortly. Unless it's something urgent, I'm afraid you'll have to excuse me."
As he spoke, he made to pick up that newspaper again.
"No need to be in such a hurry to chase us out, Mr. George."
Russell still wore that same smiling, narrow-eyed expression.
"Who says we don't have something urgent?"
"I think I made myself quite clear last week." George's tone was gradually growing impatient.
"Unless you have an authorization from the board, or something of even higher rank—otherwise, there's nothing to discuss."
"Authorization—of course we have it." Russell nodded, then reached toward his own pocket.
"Wait while I look for it..."
"An authorization from Scotland Yard, we may decline to accept—I think I said this last week as well."
"If the two of you have poor memories, I happen to know a specialist who might be able to help you."
"I know, Mr. Adler, you said it last week already."
Russell nodded, then drew out an envelope.
An exquisitely made envelope, stamped with a striking royal crest.
"But—"
He set that letter down, neither too lightly nor too heavily, on the desk before George—a desk made of precious mahogany.
"Who said the authorization I obtained was from Scotland Yard?"
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