The night had completely shrouded Ramsgate, and the gas lamps outside Albion Villa cast the shadows of the iron fence onto the damp cobblestone road. A gentle breeze blew by, causing the shadows to sway gently like seaweed.

Although the night was already deep, the crowd gathered outside the fence was even larger than during the day.

Among them were journalists, artists, and many local residents drawn by curiosity.

Some had old wool coats draped over their shoulders, others carried sketchbooks and short pencils, and some simply stood with arms crossed, occasionally asking those around them what had happened.

Disraeli, Great Dumas, Dickens, and Eld stood shoulder to shoulder at the front of the crowd, their expressions filled with an indescribable gravity.

Although none of the four spoke, it was clear to everyone that Arthur was taking a significant risk by forcing his way into Albion Villa tonight.

If things weren’t as Arthur imagined, or even if they were, but Arthur couldn’t prove he was right in doing so, he might still face exile, or even... the gallows for his actions today.

"The light’s still on." Dickens glanced up at the half-open window on the third floor, his voice slightly trembling, unsure if it was from the cold night wind or concern for his friend: "If the Princess is really as sick as Arthur says, then this light... might be the only movement tonight."

Disraeli paced anxiously in front of the door, hands behind his back: "Damn it! Arthur should have discussed with us more before he acted. If he can’t convince the Duchess and Conroy once he’s inside, there’ll be big trouble."

Saying this, he couldn’t help but mutter under his breath: "Earl of Lyndhurst... No, no, he’s not quite enough. I should instead write to Peel and the Duke of Wellington. Hope they’ll consider Arthur’s many years of loyal service and my slight influence on the Conservative Party to intervene for him..."

Great Dumas spat on the ground upon hearing this: "Bah! Benjamin, what’s there to be afraid of?"

He puffed up his chest and spoke nonchalantly: "If Arthur can’t make it in Britain, I’ll immediately take him back to Paris! I lived in his house for free for two years; as long as he’s willing, I’ll support him in Paris for twenty years! Just in time, my new theater in Paris is about to open, and Arthur can be the theater manager, manage accounts, scold actors, collect ticket money. Isn’t he fond of ballet dancers? I have plenty of girls there! That’s the life a man should live, far better than you lot arguing in the Lower House! We’ll open a bottle of champagne to celebrate later, celebrate that he’s finally rid of this mess of trouble!"

Disraeli glared at Great Dumas and pointed: "Alexander, if only things were that simple! Do you think this is the Bastille? Come and go as you please?"

Dickens quickly intervened to calm them down: "Shh, stop arguing. All these ears outside are pricking up to listen!"

Eld, who had remained silent, was also filled with pent-up anger. He said, "What’s the fuss? You two argue like fishmongers at the dock."

At this point, he took out his pocket watch and checked the time, snapping it shut with a click: "I’m not leaving tonight. I’ll stand here all night if I must, to see him come out firsthand."

...

Inside the bright-lit living room of Albion Villa.

The attendant standing by the window heard the commotion outside and couldn’t help but part the curtain to take a peek.

It would have been better if he hadn’t looked, but once he did, he was visibly startled.

The attendant quickly walked over to the Duchess of Kent, who was sitting on the sofa, and softly reminded her: "Your Highness, outside... quite a few people have gathered."

"People?" The Duchess of Kent was alarmed and quickly inquired: "What kind of people?"

"Not sure, but... I saw Calvin from The Times and Hodgson from Chronicle Morning Paper among the crowd."

"Journalists?" The Duchess of Kent’s fan fell onto her knee: "How many people are there outside?"

"I’m afraid... at least thirty or forty," the attendant cautiously replied. "And it looks like more people are heading this way."

Conroy, standing beside the Duchess, snapped his ledger shut and muttered: "Damn it! I knew it would turn into a mess!"

He walked over to the window and lifted a corner of the heavy curtain to take a look outside.

Under the gaslight, the shadows of people moved like flowing ink on the cobblestone road, as if they might rush into Albion Villa at any moment.

Conroy let go of the curtain and said to the Duchess: "Your Highness, we must immediately send someone to drive away those reporters and onlookers; otherwise, by morning, every newspaper in London will publish this scandal."

"Drive them away?" The Duchess looked up, both alarmed and hesitant: "They’re journalists, not rioters, how do we drive them away?"

"Your Highness, journalists are far more dangerous than rioters. Rioters can be scattered with a stick, but once journalists start talking, they’ll be like mice in a granary, leaving you in shambles." Conroy’s face turned dark as he approached Sheriff Murphy, who was feigning inspection of the kitchen: "Mr. Murphy, today’s mess started because of you, you should take responsibility."

"Me?" Murphy looked up, pointing to himself, replied awkwardly: "Sir, I was just conducting a routine inspection."