Old Koller seemed a bit intimidated by the other's assertiveness and unconsciously stepped back: "Liev, this is a detective. He wants to help you find Daisy." Liv's face, etched with deep lines and patches of flaking skin, turned to Crane with a cold tone. "We've already called the police." Though she might have been in her thirties, she looked closer to fifty. Crane took in the room, filled with damp clothes hanging everywhere, and vaguely remembered his last visit when there had been a girl, around thirteen or fourteen, carefully handling a crude, homemade iron to press out the wrinkles in the freshly dried garments—her hands bearing clear marks of scalds. That girl was Daisy... Crane looked back at the laundry woman, Liv, speaking in a neutral tone. "Do you think the police from the East District will truly devote themselves to finding Daisy? "And surely, the people who caused Daisy to go missing—wouldn't they naturally turn their attention toward your home?" "Do you want to lose another one after already losing a daughter?" The harsh yet piercing words reached Liv, the laundry worker, who gradually saw her composed expression dissolve. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out; tears began to well up in her eyes. She suddenly buried her face, murmuring in pain and despair, "I don't have enough money..." The room fell suddenly silent, even the weeping girl stopped speaking. Liv remained silent for a moment, raised her hands—wrinkled and swollen from years of constant exposure to water—and gently wiped her eyes, speaking in a low, steady tone. "Detective sir, you truly are a kind, generous gentleman..." Her voice suddenly caught. "The story is this: the day before yesterday at noon, Freya led Daisy back with a batch of freshly washed clothes. They were heading several streets beyond the eastern district. To make it back in time for lunch, Freya chose a quiet, winding alley. But she didn't notice—right away—Daisy had disappeared from behind her. She retraced her steps in search of her, but couldn't find her, and Daisy never returned. "Where exactly was Freya at that time?" The young woman named Freya had now stood up, her eyes red and puffy. She wept softly. "Right here, in the Broken Axe Alley, Detective sir. Is Daisy all right?" "Yes," said Crane, expression unchanged. He glanced around, then asked, "Do you have any items that Daisy often carries? I'd like to borrow a police dog—it has an excellent sense of smell and can track down the person based on the scent left behind." "…No," Liv, the laundry woman, thought for a moment, her expression sorrowful. Young Freya wiped away another tear, feeling as though the situation had once again reached a dead end. Suddenly, she blinked and said, "Yes, there is one. Daisy's word book!" "Word book?" Old Kole asked beside her. Liv sniffed and said, "I've arranged for Freya and Daisy to attend the free evening school. I can keep doing the laundry for them, but they can't always stay like this." What a wonderful mother she is… Klein couldn't help but remark. Free schools, established by three major churches or certain charitable organizations, offer evening classes from eight to ten o'clock, completely free of charge—often even providing writing materials and a certain amount of paper at no cost. These schools focus on basic literacy education, with only occasional exposure to religious knowledge. Neil once taught at such a free school for several years, and Caine has heard about some of the details from him. ——Because there are few volunteers willing to teach at these free schools, a unique teaching model has developed: teachers arrive early, gather the top-performing students, convey the day's lessons to them, and then have these students teach their respective classes. The teachers circulate among the classrooms, offering guidance, corrections, and feedback—this system is known as the "monitoring system." In contrast, technical worker training institutes and similar free organizations provide truly accessible pathways for the poor to rise above their social class. Unfortunately, there aren't many such organizations, and their efforts are merely palliative, difficult to achieve substantial impact. At this point, Freya wiped away her tears and added, "Daisy loves learning and has already been designated by her teachers as a class tutor. She keeps the sheets she copies of words together and sleeps with them, holding them close, then gets up early in the morning to recite them outside under the morning light. She has always been deeply regretful, especially that there are no streetlights nearby..." As she spoke, Freya rushed back to the loft bed, pulling out a stack of crumpled sheets from beneath a worn-out pillow. Due to prolonged exposure to moisture, the words written on the sheets had slightly blurred. The edges of the sheets were also worn, as though frequently handled over time. "Mr. Detective, can it—can this work?" Freya held the unbound, loose collection of sheets in both hands and asked earnestly. "Yes, it can." "Klein answered very succinctly. He wasn't trying to comfort Freya—though such items weren't carried daily, they had long accompanied their targets and projected a strong sense of the target's belief, making them excellent materials for locating someone through divination with a staff. He flipped a few pages in his dictionary and said, "Then I'll begin my efforts—finding Daisy as soon as possible." Liv and Freya found no words to describe their feelings, and could only keep saying, "Thank you," "Thank you, Detective," "Thank you, kind gentleman," as they watched Klein and the old Koller leave. Outside the apartment, Klein turned to the old Koller and said, "Keep an eye out for those unemployed textile workers, especially those who haven't found new jobs and haven't become streetwalkers—pay particular attention to those who have simply disappeared. "Take good care of yourself, ask fewer questions and listen more—should this matter be handled well, there will be a reward." "Understood!" "Old Koller nodded firmly. He didn't immediately leave. After a moment's hesitation, he asked with hopeful tone, 'Detective, you're certain you'll find Daisy, aren't you?' 'I can only say I'll do my best,' Klein replied, making no guarantee. Old Koller sighed, offered a wry smile: 'I've lost my own child, so I'm most unwilling to witness something like this...' He waved his hand and walked off down another street. Klein moved at a steady pace, leaving the scene. On his way, he wrapped the handle of his cane with Daisy's 'word book,' completing a quiet, unobtrusive 'cane divination.' The result pointed northwest—temporarily inconclusive as to whether it was disturbed or misdirected. He looked down at the direction the cane was about to fall, and gently steadied it with his palm. Following the guidance, Klein proceeded out of the eastern district and hired a hired carriage. Half an hour and thirty minutes later, the carriage—occasionally changing direction—came to a stop at 17 Aries Street in the Eris area of the Joewood district, before a house featuring expansive lawns, wide gardens, a small fountain square, and marble statues. At that moment, within the carriage, Caine's walking stick had fallen straight toward that very spot. Through the window, he saw guards patrolling the iron gate and a line of dogs with tongues lolling out, their vigilance notably strict. The security was indeed formidable. More importantly, even without any divination, Caine sensed a significant danger within, simply through his intuitive spiritual awareness. What place was this? How had Daisy's disappearance drawn the attention of such a secure and potentially perilous location? Caine pondered for a few seconds, then instructed the driver to continue. The driver responded with mild surprise. "Sir, weren't you here to visit Mr. Kappin?" Kappin? That name sounded familiar to Caine. He smiled and asked, "Why do you think that?" "Often people come from the East District and take my carriage here," the driver replied casually. "Ah, this is the home of Mr. Karpin, a wealthy man." East District... Karpin... wealthy man... Suddenly, Crane remembered who Karpin was: In many rumors, he was the ruthless crime boss, responsible for the disappearance of numerous young, innocent women. Yet in reality, he was a well-connected wealthy man. Crane said nothing further, leaned back against the carriage wall, and half-closed his eyes. The carriage moved slowly, and the grand villa receded, eventually fading behind the glass windows. He didn't know that Mrs. Anselma's husband had passed away, nor that Mrs. Anselma had inherited the estate and had become a remarkable figure—nor could he have imagined that Mrs. Anselma would leave her belongings to me. Might he also be a remarkable person? Did he possess the gift of prophecy? Firth sipped at the Felmor coffee and organized his thoughts: "I used to be a physician at the nearby Youssef clinic, and Mrs. Anselma often came for medical consultations. At that time, her husband, Mr. Labro, had already passed away. "I would occasionally accompany her, helping her with various matters—" So, in the end, she left her deposits and cash to me, and bequeathed her jewelry, books, and furniture to charitable organizations, all under the supervision of the law firm she had designated." Firth spoke the truth, though not all of it. Lawrence rubbed his forehead and said: "It's truly遗憾 that I couldn't understand why Mrs. Anselma didn't reach out to me during those years." "She never mentioned your name, and seemed somewhat dissatisfied with the relatives of Mr. Laborough," Fotherstane replied calmly. Lawrence paused silently and then said, "Thank you for your account—it has clarified several things. By the way, where are Laborough and Anelisa buried?" "Green Cemetery," Fotherstane said, checking her watch from her bag. "Lawrence, I have other matters to attend to—I should be leaving now." Lawrence did not stop her, and simply rose to see her off. After sitting down again, he rubbed his temples thoughtfully, murmuring to himself, "Laborough has passed away without any children, and I have no idea where his remarkable qualities have gone—Anelisa must have taken them. Richard was killed by the Aurora Society. Sam simply doesn't want to engage with us, unwilling to carry the family name. Is the Abraham family truly going to fade away like this?"