The wheels rolled over the damp cobblestone road, and the carriage slowly stopped by Fleet Street.
Compared to a few years ago when Imperial Publishing first started, the nameplate above the main entrance appeared quite old, but in a place like Fleet Street, this instead conveyed a mature confidence symbolizing a long history.
Arthur got off the carriage ahead of Disraeli. As his foot touched the sidewalk, his gaze instinctively swept around the entrance of the editorial department.
It wasn't a deliberate alertness but rather an instinctive muscle reaction of an old cop, and Arthur himself couldn't even remember when he developed this habit.
Perhaps it was the first time he was blocked and beaten by London thugs in an alley?
Or maybe it was after the explosion at the Golden Lion Inn in Liverpool?
Of course, it could also be sometime after the shooting at the Tower of London or the assassination of Louis Philippe in Paris.
