The Shadow of Great Britain

Lewis felt a tightness in his heart when questioned.

Informants?

Assistants?

Bloody hell! Where would he get informants and assistants from?

In most cases, he could barely support himself, let alone have surplus funds to share with others.

If he really had to talk about informants, it would only be a few childhood friends who were doing quite well now.

Occasionally, Lewis could glimpse a corner of high society from conversations with them, then take it back, process it a bit, turn it into news and submit it to the newspaper.

Apart from that, everything he relied on for a living was just a notebook, the appreciation of a few newspaper editors, and that little trick of ’waterfall storytelling.’

But even so, in public, he couldn’t lose face, especially in front of a diplomat. Even if he were a beggar, he’d have to carry himself with the dignity of the king of beggars.

Lewis raised his wine glass and lightly cleared his throat: "Informants? Of course, I have them! In the journalism business, if you don’t have a few special channels, you can’t make it."

He spoke with an air of casual indifference, as if those made-up connections truly existed.

"For instance..." Lewis’s eyes darted as he activated his talent for storytelling: "In the West Indies Pier area, I’ve got a couple of people passing me information. Near Golden Cross Station, there’s an old friend, and even backstage at the Alhambra Theater, I know a few girls willing to leak some news to me."

Lewis rattled off his connections in one breath, feeling a bit smug.

These places were chaotic and diverse, making it difficult for the other party to verify and catch him in the lie, even if they suspected he was lying.

Unfortunately, every single location Lewis meticulously chose fell under the intelligence coverage of Sir Arthur Hastings, the secretary-general of the Police Commissioner Committee.

West Indies Pier was situated in the core territory of the Hastings faction within the Greater London Police Department – the East End of London.

Ever since Scotland Yard was established, high-ranking officers in charge of the East District’s security, aside from the first head Chief Inspector Clemens, were either Sir Arthur Hastings himself or his closely associated old subordinates from the second term onwards.

Even those currently in high positions within the Police Intelligence Department, like Brayden Jones and Ledley King, have had long-term postings in the East End.

This strange connection between the Police Intelligence Department and the East District has led to a saying among officers: "If you haven’t endured hardship in the East District, it’s difficult to enjoy the comforts of the Intelligence Bureau."

As for the area near Golden Cross Station, even excluding the new police station Scotland Yard set up there two years ago, the telegraph station of the England Electromagnetic Telegraph Company still helps relay information.

And the Alhambra Theater?

Leaving aside the theater’s desperation to curry favor with Imperial Publishing for the rights to adapt Dickens’ scripts, simply looking at its location, Leicester Square, it falls under Mr. Eld Carter’s field reconnaissance scope, the chief intelligence officer of Leicester Square.

Mr. Carter knows the Alhambra Theater’s entrances, exits, and the number of backstage rooms like the back of his hand.

But even though Arthur could easily figure out if Lewis was lying by just twitching a finger, he didn’t bother to make a fuss over such a trivial matter.

It’s merely boasting to liven up the mood; why forcibly puncture someone else’s fragile self-esteem?

Arthur listened and simply nodded slightly: "I see, so your reach is even sharper than the Foreign Office’s."

His tone was gentle as he finished, sounding like a sincere compliment, yet also a casual polite remark: "The Foreign Secretary might know what’s happening in the Caucasus Mountains, but he certainly doesn’t know how many robberies occurred in the East End last night."

Lewis was filled with pride, but it didn’t take long before he became alert again.

The higher you are praised, the harder you fall; he understood this too well.

Hadn’t he almost been exposed because of lies printed in the newspaper before?

So he hastily retreated from the danger zone, steering the topic away: "Alas, our sources as journalists are nothing special. But you, sir, as a diplomat, you must be far superior! I’ve heard that diplomats also have networks of informants, right? In the salons of Paris, at parties in Vienna, in the corridors of the court... there are ears to pass on information everywhere. I’ve read many travelogues and memoirs by retired diplomats, saying that diplomats must maneuver between balls, salons, and banquets, saying one line to convey three meanings, guessing the threefold motives behind another’s words. Are those true?"

Arthur looked at the one penny journalist who had just made a small fortune. Whether it was his earnestness or his exaggerated expressions, Arthur found it amusing.

"Half truth, half fiction," he replied with a slight smile, raising his hand to support his chin: "Though the situation isn’t as exaggerated as they say, indeed, many times we acquire diplomatic intelligence through personal connections."

"Really?!" Lewis couldn’t help but interrupt.

"Really." Arthur recalled with a smile the ’good old days’ when he got work done over drinks a few years ago: "Those gatherings, salons, banquets you mentioned, truly are a must for diplomats. In the world of diplomacy, burying yourself in work doesn’t yield results, it’s the ones who ’live life as a game’ who easily achieve success. In most cases, the intelligence you painstakingly piece together isn’t even as useful as a slip of the tongue from a drunken countess."