The scene began to warp, blur, and fade. Caine broke free from that dreamlike state and his vision gradually adjusted to the dimness of the bedroom. He knew that his brother, Bensin, was struggling to support himself and Melissa at a weekly salary of one pound ten shillings—equivalent to thirty shillings—by ordinary working-class standards. He had assumed that most workers earned at least twenty shillings per week. Melissa had mentioned to him that on the lower side of the Iron Cross Street, some families of five, seven, or even ten people shared a single room. He had learned from Bensin that, over the past few months, the kingdom had faced economic difficulties due to the situation on the southern continent. He also knew that domestic servants who lived on-site earned between three shillings six pence and six shillings per week. Caine reached out, pressing his fingers to his brow, remaining silent for a long time, until Sir Deville, lying in bed, spoke: "Officer, won't you say something?" "My previous psychologists would always chat with me and ask questions in this kind of setting." "But I really did feel at peace. I was almost falling asleep just now, yet I didn’t hear a single groan or cry." "How did you manage that?" Klein leaned against the back of the armchair, remained silent, and asked gently, "Jazz, do you know what lead poisoning is? Do you know the harm it causes?" "..." Devill, lying in bed, paused for a few seconds, then said, "I didn’t know before. Now I do. You mean my psychological issues—my mental illness—is due to a sense of guilt, specifically toward those female workers who handled the lead and those who applied the glaze?" "Not waiting for Cline to respond, he spoke offhand as he had each time he had seized the initiative in negotiations: 'Yes, I did once feel guilty, but I've long since made good on that. In my lead and porcelain factories, the wages paid to workers exceed those in comparable locations. In Beckland, the weekly wages for lead workers and glaze workers were no more than eight sou, while I paid them ten sou, or even more.' 'Indeed, many have accused me of compromising their moral standards, claiming it's difficult to attract workers. Had it not been for the repeal of the Grain Act, and the resulting bankruptcies among farmers who moved into the city, many of them would have had to follow my lead and raise their wages.' 'Moreover, I've instructed the factory managers to encourage workers who repeatedly suffer headaches and blurred vision—those who have difficulty coping with exposure to lead—to step away from environments where lead is present. If their condition becomes severe, they can apply for assistance from my charitable fund.' 'I believe, I've done enough." Klein spoke without the slightest variation in tone: "Sir, sometimes you can never imagine how crucial a salary is to a poor family, even if they're unemployed for just one or two weeks—their household suffers irreversible, devastating damage." He paused, then asked, "I'm curious—given your deep sense of compassion, why haven't you installed protective equipment against dust and lead poisoning in the factory?" Klein crossed his hands and remained silent for a moment, then said: "Sir, the psychological issues you're experiencing stem from the accumulated guilt—though you believe they have faded, have even disappeared. Originally, this wouldn't have had any particularly noticeable impact. But there's one specific event that has triggered everything, igniting all your concerns at once." "An event that triggered me? I'm not aware of such a thing," Devereux replied, expressing both doubt and conviction. Klein allowed his body to gently sway with the rocking chair, speaking in a calm tone: "In fact, you've already dozed off for several minutes and conveyed something to me." "Was it hypnotherapy?" Devereux instinctively guessed, forming a preliminary conclusion. Klein didn't offer a direct confirmation, but simply said: "You once saw a female factory worker on a train who had died en route to work. She had succumbed to lead poisoning, and during her lifetime, she had been responsible for applying the glaze to your porcelain." "...," Deville rubbed his temples, speaking softly and uncertainly, "there seems to be something like this... but I can't quite recall it clearly." The prolonged insomnia had left him mentally drained, and faintly, he truly felt as though he had seen similar scenes before. After a moment's thought, he stopped pressing his already weary brain and asked instead, "What's the woman's name?" Devill slowly sat up, chuckling to himself: "I'll handle all the other matters, but legislation? Honestly, I don't see how it's possible. With foreign competitors still out there, legislation would plunge these industries into a crisis—one after another, leading to bankruptcies and massive job losses. The poor relief organizations simply won't be able to save that many people." He turned over slowly, getting off the bed, smoothed his collar, and looked at Cline. "Hélène Walker, isn't it? I'll have Kalen fetch her files from the porcelain factory and bring her parents over. Officer, could you please join me and stay by my side, constantly assessing my mental state?" "Of course." Cline rose slowly, brushing his black-and-white uniform. These two guests have rough skin, with early wrinkles appearing on their faces; the man's back is slightly hunched, and the woman has a black mole on her eyelid. They closely match the appearance that克莱恩 saw through Hélia, though they appear older and more worn, nearly skeletal in their thinness, dressed in worn and tattered garments—so much so that it's said they are barely able to stay in Iron Cross Street's lower district. Ah... A cold wind begins to swirl within克莱恩's inspiration. He presses his fingers to his brow, turns to Sir Deville, and notices a faint, translucent, wavering figure emerging behind him at some point. "Good morning, esteemed sir, esteemed lord," Hélia's parents bow with unusual formality. Sir Deville rubs his forehead and asks, "Are you Hélia Walker's parents? She has a brother and a sister, doesn't she—one brother, and a sister who is two years old?" "My mother replied with fear: 'She—her brother recently fell off the dock and broke his leg. Since then, he's been staying at home to look after his sister.'" Devill remained silent for a few seconds, then sighed and said, "I am truly sorry for the misfortune that has befallen Hélène." Upon hearing this, both Hélène's father and mother immediately wiped away tears, speaking in a hurried, overlapping manner: "Thank you. Thank you so much for your kindness." "The police told us that Hélène died from lead poisoning—was that the word you used? Oh, how可怜 my child! She was only seventeen. She was always so quiet and so determined." "You sent someone to visit her and helped with the funeral expenses. She is now buried in the Raphael Cemetery." Devill glanced at Cline, shifted his posture, leaned forward, and spoke with a serious tone: "This has actually been our oversight. I would like to apologize." "I've thought it over—I must make good on my promise to you, to Hélène, whose weekly salary is ten sou, isn't it? That amounts to 520 sou a year, or about twenty-six pounds. Assuming she can continue working for at least ten years." "Karen, give Hélène's parents three hundred pounds." "Three hundred pounds?" Hélène's parents were utterly stunned. Their most prosperous years had never seen them accumulate more than one pound in savings! Not only they, but the bodyguards and servants in the drawing room were equally amazed and envious. Even Chief Constable Gatt found himself struggling to catch his breath—his weekly salary was only two pounds, and his subordinate, a constable with a 'V' rating, earned just one. A profound, unspoken silence settled over the room. Then, Karen stepped out of the study, holding a bulging cloth bag in her hands. She unrolled the bag, revealing stacks upon stacks of banknotes—some in pounds, others in fives, but mostly in one-sou and five-sou denominations. It was clear that de Virel had already arranged for some "small change" to be exchanged at the bank in advance. "This is the爵士's thoughtfulness," said Calen, who had received the host's approval, and handed the satchel to Hélia's parents. Hélia's father and mother took it, gently rubbing their eyes and looking at it again and again. "No, no, this is too generous—we should not accept it," they insisted, holding the satchel tightly. De Virel spoke firmly, "This is what Hélia deserves." "You are truly a noble and kind爵士!" Hélia's parents bowed deeply, expressing their gratitude repeatedly. A warm smile spread across their faces, one they could hardly contain. They praised de Virel again and again, repeating only a few adjectives, and mentioned over and over that Hélia would surely be deeply grateful in heaven. "Calen, send them back, yes—first to the bank," de Virel said, exhaling in relief, to his steward. Haley's parents held the bag tightly, moving swiftly toward the door without pausing. Crain noticed that the faint, translucent figure behind Sir Deville tried to reach out to them, to follow them as they went, but they smiled brightly and didn't turn back. The figure grew increasingly pale and eventually vanished entirely. In Crain's perception, the chill in the living room suddenly returned to normal. He had remained completely silent throughout, offering no comment. "Officer, I feel much better now. Could you please tell me why my butler, servants, and bodyguards can also hear weeping and moaning? Shouldn't this be solely a psychological issue affecting me?" Sir Deville looked at him with curiosity. The officer who knew the truth grew visibly tense. Crain responded calmly: "In psychology, we refer to this phenomenon as collective hysteria."