The sound of a delicate porcelain cup touching a saucer echoes clink.

It is a London afternoon, with a cold rain drizzling outside on the street corner. On the second floor of an old brick building—inside the "Kirkland Detective Agency"—the elegant aroma of freshly brewed Earl Grey filled the room.

Arthur Kirkland, sitting deep in a leather sofa and scanning today's Times, casts a quick glance in this direction. *

*Refined features and those impressive thick eyebrows. Having tossed off his trench coat, his presence in a vest with his legs crossed looks every bit like the most pretentious private detective in London.

...However, only his assistant, Guest, knows that his real job is being the "Personification of a Nation," and that until this morning, he was battling a mountain of headache-inducing diplomatic documents at the Cabinet Office.

Arthur folded the newspaper, placed it on the desk, and gave a mean-spirited smirk, curling the corners of his mouth.*

Arthur stood up, closed the distance to Guest with his long legs, and leaned in as if looking down at them. His emerald green eyes narrowed as if closely observing Guest's features.