Chapter 46: Taylor and the Golden Smoke

"I know you, Inspector from the Bureau of Investigation."

Unlike that James Pan, who seemed to avoid detectives like the plague, this Mr. Randolph did not shy away at all. Instead, he introduced himself and his younger sister with great politeness.

Taylor.

This surname was not particularly noble in high society, but whenever "Golden Mist" was mentioned, one could not avoid mentioning Bellows Taylor and his son, Randolph Taylor.

That tobacco and smoking accessories brand, which wielded immense influence and could truly be called the industry leader, was founded by Randolph Taylor's grandfather.

It was currently in the hands of his father, Bellows Taylor.

Barring any unforeseen circumstances, it would eventually be taken over by the blonde man with deep blue eyes standing before Roland right now—Randolph Taylor.

The grandfather had established the brand, and both father and son were exceptionally skilled businessmen.

"You know me?"

"Of course, some news travels fast in our circle." Randolph Taylor tweaked his sparse, thin eyebrows and cast a glance around the room, hinting at Roland. "Especially in salons, Mr. Collins."

Very well.

James Pan.

I actually thought they didn't like eating cake.

[They don't like *you*, you fool.]

- Do you like me?

The drifting text gave a start.

[...Are you sick?]

- Just asking.

[I don't want to answer your boring question.]

Roland curved the corners of his lips.

His conversation with Randolph Taylor had gone quite well.

Regarding the occult, the somewhat youthful man maintained a curious yet respectful tone as he listened to Roland share a few casual remarks. Afterwards, when Roland tossed out a new topic, Randolph briefly shared a few lighthearted anecdotes about the tobacco trade.

Give and take.

They ate some halibut fillets, sliced up a few pork chops, and tasted kidney pie.

During the meal, two roasted Asa chickens lying flat on their backs were served, accompanied by fried potato shreds and nut pastries.

By the way, what pleased Roland even more was this:

This Randolph Taylor never brought up the matter of his eyes, nor did he utter any hollow pleasantries like "Please let me know if you need my help with anything."

It finally felt a bit like a real salon.

Strangely enough, throughout their entire conversation, Randolph's younger sister, Beatrice Taylor, hadn't said a single word. She simply blinked and stared straight at Roland.

[Does she have something wrong with her head?]

- Don't talk about a lady that way.

"...I gave him that pouch of tobacco, not for him to use it as incense by his candelabra."

A humorous remark was made, and Roland chuckled in response.

Just then, the young woman who had remained silent the entire time spoke up.

Her voice was as childish and immature as that of a little girl who hadn't grown up yet.

"You're so pretty!"

Her voice was not quiet at all.

Surrounding glances immediately filled with surprise and displeasure.

Randolph offered Roland an apologetic look, then turned to apologize to those around them. Afterward, he picked an apple from the table and placed it in Beatrice's hand.

She took a fierce bite.

Juice trickled down the corner of her mouth.

[She definitely has something wrong with her head.]

"You must be exceptionally pretty as well, Miss Taylor." Roland stared at the floor, straightened his expression, and replied politely.

The blonde-haired young girl curved her lips, raised the apple bearing her bite marks, and flashed a brilliant smile at Roland.

"It seems you two are getting along well."

Cherie Chloe walked over.

As the hostess of the banquet, carving out this much free time already wasn't easy.

"Madam," Randolph bowed slightly.

"How is old Taylor doing?"

"Bless you, he is in robust health. It's just that with the weather turning cooler lately, the old gentleman often steps onto his carriage in just a single layer of clothing, which worries me a bit."

Cherie Chloe unfurled her fan, its satin texture as soft as her gown: "Winter cannot defeat him. Aside from an excellent, shrewd, physically robust, and brilliantly wise successor, I suppose nothing can defeat him."

Randolph smiled brightly.

Cherie plucked two glasses of champagne from a passing servant's tray, handing one to Randolph and keeping the other for herself: "Pardon me, but I must borrow your friend for a little while."

Randolph looked from Cherie to Roland, his smile widening even further: "Of course, my friend, please do come visit us at your earliest convenience. Number Twenty-Five West Avenue. By the way, it was a pleasure talking with you."

"Likewise, Mr. Taylor."

After bidding farewell to the Taylor siblings, Roland followed Cherie as they moved away.

After walking for about two minutes, the slightly fatigued-looking hostess found a quieter spot with fewer people and spoke in a flat tone.

"The little fox of the Taylor family is out selling his sister again."

"Selling?"

"You're not from this circle, so naturally you wouldn't know. The story is all over the place." Cherie Chloe's words were sharp, and whenever she spoke of the Taylor family, her brows and eyes grew considerably more piercing: "His sister is..."

She tapped her temple.

"A girl with something wrong up here."

[See what I told you.]

- What is wrong with you?

"It wasn't very obvious when she was little. Until one time, she peed her pants right on the street." Cherie raised an eyebrow, her tone carrying an indescribable complexity, sounding both mocking and sympathetic: "...And then she shouted at the top of her lungs, 'It's raining!' The story spread like wildfire."

"Later on, who knows how many tutors they hired, or perhaps as she grew older, the child learned to go out and socialize in a somewhat passable manner..."

"Yet something is still off. It just feels wrong."

"This illness... I don't believe it can ever be cured."

Only then did Roland understand.

Ever since earlier, that Miss Taylor's behavior had indeed seemed rather bizarre.

"Few people are willing to marry a fool and bring her home. How could she ever show her face in public again? As for those with impure motives who genuinely lust after the Taylor family's generous dowry, young Taylor wouldn't allow his sister to marry someone only to 'fall gravely ill and pass away' a few years later—he is far too shrewd."

"Don't you fall for it. If she weren't a complete idiot, do you really think a tobacco tycoon like Taylor would ever look twice at an executive?"

Roland unhurriedly added: "A probationary executive."

Cherie burst into a peal of laughter.

"Shall we dance?"

"A blind man?"

"Then let me show you something interesting."

As they passed a side parlor, Roland caught sight of Sir Minse Chloe.

He was surrounded by a group of gentlemen around a table, occasionally letting out bursts of excited or frustrated cries.

The square table was covered with a green flannel cloth, with several maids attending nearby. Very few gas lamps were lit, save for a single bright one right in the center.

The tabletop was strewn with numerous cigars and cigarettes, filling the parlor with a heavy stench of tobacco, alcohol, and cologne.

Add in the smell of sweat and smoke, and it was simply unspeakable.

In the center of the long table they surrounded was a recessed groove containing a giant, roulette-like mechanism.

Inside it, a silver ball the size of a thumb rolled round and round among the grid slots.

When the ball finally settled, a roar of voices erupted.

"That's their gambling apparatus."

Even though he might possess "tricks," Cherie still assumed Roland had poor eyesight and relied mainly on his ears.

Therefore, she explained in a low voice:

"People can squander tens or hundreds of pounds in a single afternoon. If you ever get hooked, you're utterly ruined."

"A blind man cannot gamble, Madam."

"You can never be sure. There are simply too many ways to play. Bazaars, hunting, roulette, cards, and I've even seen..." She tugged at Roland's sleeve, eager to drag him away from this foul-smelling den, "...I've even seen people gamble away women."

"Women?"

Cherie let out a light scoff: "Just the usual foolishness you men get up to."

[These fellows sure know how to have fun, let's sneak over and take a look, Roland.]

- I have no interest in gambling.

[Oh~ is that so~ I suppose you're only interested in vicious bats~]

[And now I suppose we have to add this aristocratic matron and that rump-shaking girl from earlier to the list?]

After chatting nearby for another ten minutes or so, the two finally left the side parlor.

Further inward lay the domain of the ladies.

The air didn't become much fresher.

After wandering around the area for a bit and having Roland listen to a couple of tunes, she led him into a room.

A performance was currently underway inside—and Roland spotted the young lady he had just met:

Beatrice Taylor.

Her brother seemed to have just stepped away, leaving her all by herself holding a cup of apple juice, standing on the outer fringe of the crowd and standing on tiptoes to peer inside.

Surrounded by the ladies was a man with a pale complexion, long light-brown hair, and a distinct black mole right on the tip of his nose.

He was currently shuffling a deck of playing cards in his hands and sliding them back into a wooden box.