Pathway to Japanese Literature

Part 1: The Colossal Treasure

“The famous Ghost Tower’s been put up for sale, I tell you—it’s even in the newspaper ads.” Amidst the silence before rumors could spread, the one who immediately resolved to purchase it was my uncle Marube Asao—former Prosecutor General now living in quiet retirement. “Though people wondered why he’d buy such a terrifying, dilapidated mansion,” deeming explanations too troublesome, he consulted no one and straightaway summoned me to take charge of handling the entire acquisition. I promptly negotiated with the housing company and arranged each necessary step.

It was no wonder my uncle wished to purchase it from the outset; Ghost Tower's original owner belonged to a branch sharing our Marube surname. Since antiquity, locals had called it Marube's Ghost Tower. When that family fell into ruin and the property changed hands—only to be listed again now—my uncle found himself unable to disregard ancestral bonds bearing our name, resolving to make it his dwelling to bequeath through generations.

After purchase negotiations and price discussions were nearly settled, I set out alone to inspect the property. The land lay between mountains and rivers forty ri from the capital—rich in scenery yet utterly desolate. Among the large buildings, the most notable was the old tower standing at its entrance. This tower was said to be the original model for clock towers in Britain, with a strange large clock embedded halfway up its height—eighty feet above ground—that had once told time for the entire village. The tower soared another seventy feet above the clock. When seen at night, this tower appeared like a great monster standing before you, its clock shining precisely like a single eye. Even in daylight, it presented a truly dreadful sight. Yet this tower bears the name Ghost Tower not for its terrifying exterior, but because legends tell of various ghosts appearing within its interior.

Though it may seem tedious, I shall now recount only those aspects of the tower’s history relevant to this tale. Long ago, this mansion was bestowed upon the ancestors of the Marube family by the king, but it is said that the first Marube master built this clock tower to conceal some great secret. The great secret was said to be a colossal treasure capable of astonishing the world. Fearing its theft, he had devoted over a decade to devising methods for its concealment until finally hitting upon the idea of constructing this clock tower. Yet shortly after its completion, he vanished—no, not vanished exactly. He had descended into a secret chamber beneath the tower (likely to count the treasures), but the mechanisms proved too ingeniously crafted for him to escape. Outsiders could not fathom how to enter beyond reaching the clock level, where thick walls barred all further progress, rendering rescue impossible. For several nights afterward, his wailing voice seemed to echo through the tower—"Save me! Save me!"—yet the household could only grieve helplessly as they listened. Though they debated demolishing the tower, civil war had left no laborers for such work, forcing them to abandon him—no, to let him perish unheard. Unable to reveal this truth, they buried rumors claiming he had disappeared amidst the chaos of war.

Thereafter, as rumors spread that this master had become a vengeful ghost, what was originally called the Clock Tower came to be known by the nickname Ghost Tower. With clock towers later being constructed elsewhere, simply calling it "the Clock Tower" grew insufficient for identification—even official records began using "Ghost Tower." Of course, legends of its colossal treasure later tempted some to plot its demolition, but lacking concrete evidence and fearing embarrassment should no treasure appear after destruction, the Ghost Tower remains intact to this day.

I arrived at this land for inspection during late summer dusk. Standing before the tower and looking up, its form appeared truly monstrous. As I thought to myself how its clock would likely resemble an eyeball come nightfall, wonder of wonders—the long and short hands of that clock began spinning wildly of their own accord. Though clock hands revolving might seem ordinary, it struck me as exceedingly strange that those of this long-abandoned timepiece—untended for years—should rotate repeatedly across its face. Originally, this clock shared the tower's secret mechanisms; none but successive heads of this household ever knew how to wind it or move its hands. With their lineage extinguished, likely no living soul could set these hands in motion—not even my uncle, who for days had been poring over old records to study its winding method. Suspecting some trick of sunset light reflected from the river might deceive my eyes, I looked again intently—only to confirm the hands moved utterly alone. It’s not as though an actual ghost would be winding the clock.

Part 2: The Ghost's True Identity

The rusted clock hands—unaware of who might wind them or how—began moving alone atop the tower, no ordinary occurrence. Yet I felt no fear toward such trifles; certain there must be a rational explanation, I resolved to uncover it and promptly advanced into the tower. Of course there was no guard; the entrance door had been removed years ago and remained unlocked—a ruin among ruins. Upon reaching the stairs leading up the tower, the surroundings grew dim, musty, and reeking of decay—exactly the sort of place where ghosts might appear. Against my will, the mansion's most recent ghost story surfaced in my mind. As this tale holds significance for later events, I shall record it here: The one who purchased this mansion from its original Marube family owners was an elderly maidservant named Wata Okon. Her brother working in Australia had died and left her a substantial inheritance, with which she bought her former masters' estate. She made the room directly below the clock chamber her quarters, sleeping there until one night her foster daughter murdered her. This occurred a mere six years prior, leaving the mansion utterly vacant ever since—yet they say her spirit still haunts that very murder room above where I now stood. Contemplating this, I couldn't help imagining spectral footsteps pacing overhead.

The foster daughter who committed the murder was promptly apprehended and brought to trial—a time when my uncle happened to be serving as prosecutor. My uncle regarded her as the one who had brought yet another ominous incident upon what could be considered our ancestral home of shared lineage. Though somewhat swayed by emotion, he vehemently argued for capital punishment and succeeded in his aim. Of course, the woman vehemently insisted she had not committed the murder, but the decisive evidence lay in the flesh bitten down to the bone on her left hand—matching the flesh fragment found in the corpse’s mouth—coupled with numerous corroborating proofs that rendered her defense untenable. Though sentenced to death, her penalty was reduced by one degree to life imprisonment due to her being underage. After suffering about four years in prison, she ultimately succumbed to illness and died. Her name was indeed O-Natsu—that is, Wata O-Natsu.

I recalled this abominable tale, and though my spirits faltered slightly, I had never believed in ghosts or their ilk existing in this world—especially since my physical strength surpassed that of ordinary men, having long prided myself on it and been praised by friends. Thus muttering “Nonsense! I’m perfectly calm” to steel myself, I began ascending the stairs.

When I climbed up to the fourth floor, this was indeed the room where the elderly Wata Okon had been murdered. According to legend, there was a bed on one side of the room from which Okon would slowly descend, blood dripping from her jaw as she clenched human flesh between her teeth. Since it was rather dim, I first tried pushing open the window shutters, but they were rusted fast and wouldn't budge. Moreover, being dusk, not much light penetrated inside. As I quietly peered about the room—wondering where that bed might be and how one could ascend behind the clock above—a sound like rustling garments came from one corner. Perhaps my eyes had adjusted somewhat to the gloom, for near where the noise originated, I could faintly make out what appeared to be a bed.

Then, just as the legend described, a human-like figure appeared to sit up on that bed. In such situations, darkness proves most disadvantageous (though perhaps advantageous for ghosts), so I moved toward the window and tried pushing the shutters with all my might once more. Yet before the stubborn shutters would yield, the suspicious figure slowly descended from the bed and approached me. However, since footsteps could be heard, this likely wasn’t a ghost—though something about it felt even eerier than any specter. I redoubled my efforts to push against the shutters; with a creaking crunch, the hinges gave way, sending them crashing onto the roof below. The room flooded with light—though twilight’s glow couldn’t match daylight’s clarity—it sufficed to reveal the ghost’s true form.

“How splendidly that shutter came off! I too wished to open it and tried pushing, but a woman’s strength proved insufficient.” This was the ghost’s first utterance—as beautiful as music. I had intended to interrogate her harshly, but disarmed by the voice’s loveliness, I softened and asked, “Was it you who moved the large clock’s hands just now?” As I asked this while scrutinizing her form, her face was even more beautiful than her voice; her figure graceful like that of a noblewoman. If one were to strictly critique it, her beauty was akin to a celestial maiden’s mask used in dance—too perfectly symmetrical for the face of a living human. Her thirty-two auspicious features were impeccably arranged with perfect symmetry. Could this woman be wearing some sort of flexible mask made of rubber or similar material? However, I’d never heard of such an ingeniously crafted mask being invented yet. If this were indeed her true face and not a mask, she would be a peerless beauty. Though there existed a woman—pressed upon me by my uncle and herself as my wife—whom I’d been unable to refuse, I felt so strongly that I must resolutely abandon her and take this woman instead. Contrarily, this celestial beauty could not possibly have remained unattached until now, nor would she yield so easily to me even if she were. Reflecting thus, my heart had been far too rash—yet at this moment, I thought precisely this: Therefore, whether this beauty’s face was a mask or her true visage, I must discern it when she speaks. I kept my eyes keenly fixed, waiting—whereupon the beauty, perhaps finding my manner absurd, smiled faintly and...

“Yes, it was I who wound this clock just now.” Not a mask. Not a mask. Her true face—her real face.

Part 3: The Left Hand

Who was this beauty? First—her solitary presence in this ruined tower, within the very chamber haunted by Wata Okon’s ghost, atop the very bed where Okon had slept—this was suspicious. Second—her knowledge of a secret unknown to any living soul: how to wind the clock. Third—her deliberate act of winding it. Initially captivated by her beauty, I hadn’t considered these oddities, but they gradually surfaced in my mind. There might yet be more mysteries. As I stood bewildered by these suspicions, the tower clock chimed. Counting—seven o’clock. Checking my pocket watch confirmed it indeed showed seven. Seeing my perplexed expression, the beauty laughed softly—“Hoho”—and mocked, “Does it surprise you that the tower clock keeps accurate time?” The loveliness of her smile only deepened the enigma—that such a peerless beauty would visit this remote locale at all seemed suspect in itself.

"I wanted to demand, 'Just who are you?'—but confronted with her exquisite features and form, such bluntness withered in my throat. Every gesture and mannerism transcended ordinary women, radiating an otherworldly refinement that made me involuntarily falter. At last I managed only: 'Why did you wind the tower's clock?' The beauty replied: 'Well, I assumed it might wind this way and wished to test my mechanical method practically.'" “For what purpose would you conduct such tests?” “Since they say none know how to wind this clock, I tested it myself and thought to teach the method to a suitable person.” “But how did you deduce how to wind it?” “Hoho—that is not a matter to be spoken of.”

This grew ever more suspicious, but at any rate, the very existence of someone in this world who knew how to wind this clock must have been an immense boon for my uncle, who had wearied himself investigating it. As I began to say, “Then, could you teach me—” the beauty grew slightly solemn and replied, “No—you are not a qualified person. This winding method is a secret that must not be disclosed beyond the tower’s owner, as tradition dictates. Thus, I cannot reveal it to anyone other than the tower’s rightful master.” “I must inform you that my uncle will soon be purchasing this tower.” “In that case, I shall convey it to your uncle. However, that too must be done through a direct meeting with him.” “No, Uncle will surely be delighted. Since I will firmly arrange for him to meet you, please look forward to that occasion.” The beauty showed no sign of being troubled; on the contrary, she seemed rather satisfied as she said, “Yes, I shall teach you.” “But you—in this tower—” “No, I have not the slightest connection to this tower.” “But that you would even concern yourself with the method of winding the clock...” “If you persist in questioning me so earnestly, I shall grow angry. Is it not enough that I tell you I have no connection to this tower?” She concluded with a tone soft yet unassailable. Though countless questions clamored within me, I could press no further now—resigning myself to silence, trusting clarity would come in time. Then, inversely, the beauty inquired: “You intend to conduct various inspections within this tower, do you not?” While this was indeed my purpose, my greater desire lay in discerning her true nature. “Yes,” I replied, “with nightfall rendering inspection impossible, let us postpone it until tomorrow. Allow me to escort you to your lodgings now.” Though my manner was quite rude, the beauty showed no anger whatsoever and replied, “Yes, but I still have a few more places I wish to see.” She promptly turned her back to me and began descending the tower. I hurried after her, and together we went down the stairs—yet instead of exiting through the entrance, she headed toward the rear garden. By now it was past seven o’clock, that hour of deepening twilight. The beauty rummaged through the folds of her garment and produced what appeared to be a map. As she began surveying the garden alone, I craned my neck to glimpse it—though poorly visible, it seemed a rough sketch of the estate: a river here, a moat there, garden paths marked throughout. But what drew my eye more than the map was her figure itself. Her kimono was neither costly nor formal—likely everyday wear—yet its plain gray fabric stretched from shoulder to hem. Gray, a shade akin to mouse fur or shadowy hue, was considered ill-omened and particularly avoided by young women. Why would she wear such a disliked color? This too added to her mystery—until my gaze fell upon her hands. Both were gloved, but her left bore an extraordinary ornament: delicate golden chains woven into a net, studded intermittently with pearls. The design emerged from deep within her sleeve and extended seamlessly into the glove itself. Never had I seen such a glove—utterly incongruous with her otherwise unadorned appearance. Could she be hiding something beneath it? The thought gripped me irresistibly—yet I could not bring myself to ask.

Before long, the beauty began walking along the moat’s embankment toward the garden’s depths. After proceeding a little over a hundred meters, she finally descended below the bank. Here stood five or six large zelkova trees, beneath one of which rose a gravestone not yet weathered by time—the mound’s shape and stone’s hue suggested someone had been buried here around last year. A grave within the estate grounds seemed peculiar enough; that a new tomb should appear in this vacant, uninhabited mansion struck me as stranger still. Growing increasingly unsettled, I unconsciously muttered *mysterious beauty* under my breath—for indeed she was. Every aspect of this woman radiated enigma: her speech, mannerisms, plain gray kimono, and that peculiar left glove adorned with golden chains and pearls. Her uncanny knowledge of the mansion’s secrets and possession of a map only compounded the mystery—not a single element about her lacked strangeness. Soon she knelt before the fresh grave and began praying, her expression first flickering with what seemed bitter frustration before softening into sorrowful reverence, eyes glistening as if tears might spill forth. Was this the resting place of a cherished lover? Or perhaps a romantic rival? Whatever the case, something here moved her profoundly. Unable to wait for her prayers to conclude, I boldly descended and asked, “Whose grave is this?” then read the inscription on the stone—and started slightly. It read: “Tomb of Wata Natsuko.” “July 11, Meiji 29—Died at age twenty-two” was inscribed on both sides. Who was this Wata Natsuko? Readers may recall from previous accounts—she was the foster daughter of Wata Okon, this household’s former mistress, a murderer who killed her foster mother, received life imprisonment, and died in prison. A criminal guilty of matricide. Upon reflection, I recalled reading in newspapers of that time how a lawyer named Gonda Tokisuke—due to having defended her the previous year—had retrieved her corpse and buried it on these grounds. That this beauty would pay respects at such a defiled individual’s grave only deepened the mystery.

Part 4: Whose Prank Finding her visit to a foster mother’s murderer’s grave such a tasteless act, I mercilessly demanded, “Are you related or acquainted with this woman?” The mysterious beauty replied, “No—neither relative nor acquaintance.” This grew ever more perplexing. Were this the grave of some chaste martyr or wise sage, strangers might visit out of reverence. But for someone unrelated by blood or acquaintance to pay respects at the grave of one who died in prison after committing murder—it was completely unheard of! I demanded: “Then why do you worship here?” The mysterious beauty solemnly raised her face,

“There’s no need to ask in such a way. When the time comes, you’ll understand naturally,” she said, then pointed toward the entrance and began walking slowly—her words carried an air of profound significance. I desperately wished to know more about this beauty—parting now without understanding her felt utterly regrettable. Thus, as I continued following her, I craned my neck sideways and asked, “Earlier, you mentioned instructing my uncle on winding the clock’s mechanism—might I now inquire after your name?” The beauty fell deep into thought, then replied more brusquely than before: “I do not give my name to those who have not shared theirs.” Indeed, I had yet to tell her my own name. “Ah! I am Marube Michikurou. My uncle is named Marube Asao.” The beauty replied softly, “Ah, I have long been acquainted with your name. I am Matsutani Hideko.” “Where is your residence?” “Tonight, I shall stay at an inn called Inaka Hotel further ahead.”

Inaka Hotel was the inn where I had left my luggage upon arriving here, and I too planned to stay there tonight. “No, that’s strange—I’m heading to that inn as well. Let’s go together.” The beauty showed no gratitude for being escorted to the inn, merely replying, “Is that so?”—yet her lack of refusal amounted to consent. As night had fully fallen and the path grew dim, I courteously suggested, “Why not take hold of my arm?” “No, I am accustomed to night paths.” She spoke curtly, leaving me no room to respond. Forced to walk beside her in silence, my thoughts churned: Was “Matsutani Hideko” her true name or an alias? What purpose drove her to infiltrate that Ghost Tower? Surely more than merely testing clock mechanisms to teach some “qualified person.” Whatever her aims, she must harbor profound secrets—both in her mission and personal history. Would that promised moment of understanding ever arrive? Would this “time when all becomes clear” truly come?

As I walked lost in these thoughts, the sudden sound of a carriage echoed from a side road, its lamplight momentarily illuminating my face before the vehicle swiftly overtook us. Yet in that brief instant, I glimpsed the passenger inside and involuntarily cried out, “Ah! Uncle has arrived!” Indeed, my uncle rode within the carriage. Seeming to recognize me through the window, the carriage halted about eighteen meters ahead, and a voice called out from it: “Michikurou! Michikurou!”

There was no one else who called me “Michisan” with such familiarity—and using my childhood name. She was O-Ura, the wet nurse’s daughter who had been raised alongside me in my uncle’s household since infancy. The world did praise her as a beauty, and she herself seemed convinced of this status, yet to my eyes she appeared unremarkable. The bitter truth, however, was that this woman had become my betrothed. I knew not how such an engagement had come to be, but that wet nurse had been a formidable woman who managed my uncle’s household. Before her death, she had persuaded him—while I was away at school—to fix me as her daughter’s future husband. My uncle, ever obliging to any request, had likely agreed out of sheer good nature. Bound by gratitude, I could not refuse his word, and having no other prospects at the time, I had acquiesced. Though formally betrothed to wed whenever I named the day, I intended never to set one—for being a wet nurse’s daughter hardly impressed me, beauty or no. Yet O-Ura already carried herself as Madame Marube, celebrated in society and striving to dominate me as wives commonly tyrannize husbands. She meddled in all my affairs; were we wed, I expected ceaseless vexation. But enough digression—hurrying toward the carriage at being summoned, I turned briefly to the mysterious beauty: “Since Uncle has arrived, pray teach us the clock’s winding method after dinner tonight. I shall arrange your meeting.” With this parting plea, I raced to the carriage where Uncle pressed urgently: “Your injury—what of it? Speak!” “Huh? Whose injury?” “Your injury.” “That I was injured must be some mistake. As you can see, I’m perfectly unharmed.” “If you’re unharmed, that’s what matters most. But how strange—whose prank is this? Here, look at this telegram first,” said Uncle, handing over a message. Holding it under the carriage lamplight, I read: “DOKURO ŌKEGA SUGU KITARE INAKA HOTERU HE.” I continued: “Uncle—someone deceived you to lure you here! This is utterly groundless. But with such pranksters about, it’s unsafe. You must go straight to the inn. I’ll head to the telegraph office immediately to inquire who sent this before returning.” “I came by train through forty ri and arrived at the station ahead in two and a half hours,” said Uncle wearily. “But I’m exhausted—I’ll follow your suggestion.” O-Ura, displeased that I hadn’t addressed her at all, shouted heedless of Uncle’s furrowed brow: “Oh, Michikurou! No greeting for me who came forty ri specifically to tend to you? Do you treat even that beauty you were walking with earlier this coldly?” I merely retorted, “This isn’t the time for greetings,” and dashed toward the telegraph office. How strange—the vicinity of this haunted mansion seemed filled with inexplicable occurrences. Yet all that had transpired so far would pale in comparison to what followed.

Part 5: Sacred Mission

Who would create such a false telegram to summon my uncle, and for what purpose? I thoroughly inquired at the telegraph office but learned nothing—only that some fourteen- or fifteen-year-old filthy urchin had brought a message written on their telegraph form. It appeared the sender had avoided delivering it personally, instead commissioning some street urchin with payment. Upon examining the form, though the pencil scrawl showed exceedingly crude characters—perhaps written crudely to avoid exposure—my assessment concluded they lacked even the skill to disguise their handwriting. Moreover, it somehow resembled a woman’s hand.

Since this alone did not reveal who had sent it, I went to the local Inaka Newspaper Company and requested they run an advertisement. The wording read: "Any child who was asked by someone on [date] at approximately [time] to go to this area’s telegraph office and submit a telegram addressed to A.M. in London should report to this Inaka Newspaper Company—ample reward will be given." Furthermore, I paid the newspaper company a sufficient fee and instructed them that if such a child came forward, they should immediately send them to my residence in London.

I cannot say whether this matter truly warranted such concern, but handling it without oversight was my way—I could not rest until having exhausted every possible measure. Having returned to the inn, I explained these matters to Uncle and informed him of someone who knew how to wind the clock. Uncle became overjoyed, stating that being deceived by the forged telegram to come here would prove fortunate if he could meet this person. He requested I arrange for them to dine together that evening. To seek the mysterious beauty, I left his room and headed toward the front desk—only to encounter her in the hallway. When conveying Uncle’s invitation, she replied with slight reluctance: “I would gladly accept alone, but I have another companion.” “Very well—both you and your companion.” “But my companion comes with an attachment.” "What could this 'attachment' be? 'Hmm... An attachment?'" “Yes—a lemur-like animal. I never part with it, making public appearances rather rude.” "A lemur-like animal—an Indian wildcat resembling fox and monkey, climbing trees, hunting prey—yet I’d heard they sometimes grow attached to humans. 'Nonsense! Many noblewomen appear publicly holding lapdogs these days. A lemur poses no obstacle to accepting a dinner invitation.'" With visible reluctance, she replied, “Then I shall accept. I have long wished to meet someone of your esteemed uncle’s renown.” Thus the arrangement settled.

As I was happily about to return to my uncle’s room, the beauty—as if suddenly remembering something—chased after me and called out: “When your esteemed uncle finally purchases Ghost Tower, will you too come to reside in that mansion?” “Yes.” The beauty said, “Then you must absolutely make that room you saw me in today your living quarters, and sleep there at night as well.” A truly peculiar admonition. I replied, “Ah—that room where Okon was killed and ghosts are said to appear?” “There’s no need to worry—ghosts won’t appear. Just now, I lay for a long time on the very bed where Okon slept, and nothing happened at all.” Indeed, this beauty had arisen from that bed like a ghost.

Yet finding her request too baffling, I pressed: “But why do you wish for such a thing?” The beauty repeated the same words she had earlier told me—“You’ll understand when the time comes”—and added: “If you do not agree to this, I shall not meet your uncle.” “Even if you insist,” I countered, “I cannot promise to make that room—a place said to be haunted—my living quarters without first hearing your reason.” “No,” she replied, “I carry what I deem a sacred mandate. Until fulfilling it, I cannot explain anything—” Sacred mandate? In this modern age? Such notions felt antiquated. Yet observing her actions—sleeping on a murder victim’s bed, visiting a matricide’s grave—she indeed seemed driven by some hidden purpose. “Was this mandate entrusted to you?” I demanded. “No,” she said softly, “I swore an oath to myself—one I must fulfill. To confess even this much risks too much... yet you seem trustworthy.” “Such scant disclosure warrants no promise from me.” “It harms you not,” she insisted. “Make that room your own, and gratitude will follow.” Had another spoken thus, I’d have refused—but her eyes held strange compulsion. Acquiescing might unveil her mission’s nature... and sleeping in haunted chambers did intrigue me. Resignedly I vowed: “Very well—I’ll claim that room.” “Then you’ll obtain the ancestral incantation,” she said. “Ponder its verses deeply—happiness shall bloom.” Incantations layered upon secret orders? Unheard of in civilized times! “Can one wield sorcery through recitation?” “A power beyond sorcery awaits.” “Does such force exist today?” “Its existence... you’ll discern when understanding comes.”

Though her words held a mesmerizing allure, I resolved to uncover the mysterious beauty’s secret mission by humoring her request. Returning to my uncle, I informed him that she—accompanied by one other—would attend dinner. I disclosed nothing of her background beyond stating she was an acquaintance named Matsutani Hideko. My uncle immediately secured a private room and had a meal prepared, dispatching a servant to summon her once ready. True to form, Uncle remained gloomily subdued, while my fiancée O-Ura grew increasingly sullen—her sharp instincts likely detecting my shifting affections. Only I maintained good spirits as we three, each harboring distinct emotions, gathered at the table. When Matsutani Hideko arrived with truly unearthly grace—the kind only a peerless beauty could command—her companion trailing behind proved startlingly coarse for a noblewoman. This Torai Fujin, aged forty-eight or nine, led an exceptionally large lemur-like creature on a chain. Hideko first acknowledged me with a nod before gesturing toward her companion: “This is my associate, Torai Fujin.” The surname hardly matched her vulgarity, but I deferred judgment and turned to Uncle: “May I present Miss Matsutani.” Before he could fully rise to greet her, Uncle started violently. His face drained of color as if struck by lightning, then he collapsed unconscious beside his chair.

Part 6: The Glove with Bizarre Adornments However shocked he might have been, for my uncle—a grown man—to faint seemed rather spineless. Yet none who knew his circumstances would find it unreasonable. Uncle had endured profound misfortunes, his nerves frayed beyond measure in recent years. The root lay in events over two decades past: a minor misunderstanding escalated into marital discord, culminating in his wife fleeing home with their infant daughter to America. Horrified, Uncle pursued them, only to arrive and learn their inn had burned down—wife and child reduced to ashes among other victims, their bones already interred in a mass grave. The tragedy made headlines; newspapers even solicited donations for memorial rites. Uncle exhumed fragments from that jumbled ossuary, repatriated them for proper burial, yet for months afterward wandered like a madman. He resolved to resign then—but with promotion to Prosecutor General imminent, colleagues dissuaded him. From that day, he ceased direct dealings with criminals, merely instructing junior prosecutors via documents. His nerves never settled thereafter; he occasionally fainted like a woman, until last year—deeming himself unfit for duty—he finally resigned.

Given his constitution, he must have fainted again tonight. At any rate, I hurriedly lifted him up, causing one or two plates on the table to clatter down. While supporting him, I shouted, “Water! Water!” But it was the mysterious beauty who acted most swiftly—she immediately grabbed the water pitcher from the table, poured it into a glass, and offered it. Seeing this, O-Ura cut in sharply—perhaps out of jealousy—and rebuked her: “You must not touch Uncle’s body! You’re the one who made him faint!” Then she turned to me with fierce intensity: “Michisan, make this woman leave!” But I am not “Michisan”—I am Michikurou! Though “Michisan” was merely what she called me in childhood, O-Ura insists on using it even before others. Being a woman of formidable nerve, she likely sought to flaunt her ownership of me before the mysterious beauty even in such circumstances.

The mysterious beauty, contrary to my expectation of anger, instead appeared genuinely concerned for Uncle as she said, “I must apologize for causing this commotion. I shall take full responsibility,” and turned to leave. I protested, “You’ve caused no disturbance whatsoever.” As I tried to detain her, Uncle partially regained consciousness—still half-dazed—and reached out his hand, groping for support to rise. His fingers accidentally brushed against the beauty’s left hand, which readers will recall was concealed by that bizarrely adorned glove. Startled, she swiftly withdrew her left hand and steadied him with her right. O-Ura’s sharp eyes instantly locked onto the peculiar glove, while Uncle’s bleary gaze seemed equally drawn to it. Yet the beauty refrained from using her left hand again; instead, she wordlessly transferred Uncle’s grip from her right hand to O-Ura’s, bowed curtly, and made to depart. Now fully lucid, Uncle cried out with desperate urgency: “No—you mustn’t leave! I implore you—stay until dinner concludes as promised!” His voice quivered like a supplicant’s plea.

The beauty seemed unable to resist any longer and said, “But if seeing me were to startle you so profoundly—” “Indeed, I cannot deny being startled by your appearance,” Uncle replied, “but—you see, my nerves have weakened in recent years, leading me to suffer such embarrassing episodes. Yet the shock was momentary—I have now fully regained my composure. I am entirely myself again. In truth, your bearing bears such striking resemblance to someone I once knew long ago that for a moment I thought she had come before me. Of course, given that decades have passed since then, even brief reflection would confirm she could not possibly remain as youthful and beautiful as you appear—yet meeting you now feels nothing like a first encounter, but rather like reuniting with a long-lost friend for whom I feel profound nostalgia.” Who did this beauty resemble among Uncle’s acquaintances? If Uncle spoke so emphatically, the resemblance must be uncanny. Who... who could it be? For some reason, this matter weighed heavily on my mind. Yet Uncle never clarified it.

Persuaded by Uncle’s words, the beauty decided to stay—or in political parlance, order was restored. Now that this was settled, I needed to placate O-Ura and improve her mood, lest our carefully arranged dinner party end in a head-butting clash and ruin everything. Exercising diplomatic finesse, I addressed O-Ura: “Are you not tonight’s hostess? Kindly manage affairs appropriately.” By granting her this small courtesy, O-Ura’s temper finally cooled, and she promptly rang a bell to summon a waiter. The waiter arrived and looked slightly dismayed upon seeing one or two broken plates on the floor. As everyone exchanged uncertain glances, Torai Fujin—who had remained silent until now—intervened. Half-muttering to herself and half-addressing the waiter, she said, “It’s just that these days, with the fashion for wide skirts on ladies’ dresses, such accidents happen occasionally,” while glancing down and lifting her own hem slightly. Ingenious! By implying her skirt had caught on something and caused the broken plates, she deftly concealed the earlier commotion beneath the veil of fashion. Wide skirts proved quite convenient after all. Yet I saw through her act. This woman was no ordinary schemer—she lied with masterful ease, devising situation-appropriate stratagems to achieve her ends. It struck me that perhaps even the mysterious beauty might be under her control. While Hideko radiated ethereal grace, Torai Fujin exuded cunning malice. If these two were separated, it might well benefit Hideko herself—indeed, I now suspected Torai Fujin had engineered even that forged telegram after Hideko’s departure. Was this all part of some elaborate charade to manipulate my uncle? My suspicions ran deep as we finally sat down to dine.

Part 7: Utterly Serious Throughout the meal, Uncle’s gaze remained fixed upon the mysterious beauty’s face—he seemed utterly captivated by her. Observing this, I grew increasingly suspicious. To whom had Uncle likened her when he mentioned her resemblance to an acquaintance from his past? Who could she possibly resemble so strikingly as to enthrall him so? Though not her own words, I supposed we’d understand when the time came.

As we ate and talked, our conversation naturally turned to Ghost Tower. Uncle looked at the mysterious beauty and said, “It’s remarkable that you know how to wind the tower’s clock. Have you often climbed that tower?” “Yes,” she replied. “I used to climb it occasionally in the past. It being a mansion long renowned in history, I lamented watching it fall deeper into ruin each year—considering how one might restore this section or maintain that area as if it were my own.” Uncle leaned forward eagerly. “This is most fortunate! In truth, I’ve decided to purchase that mansion and shall absolutely maintain it exactly as you advise.” “Indeed,” she responded, “having already heard from your nephew that you might acquire it due to recent circumstances, I wished to meet you at least once to share my knowledge.” This sustained dialogue visibly grated on O-Ura’s nerves—she waited poised to sever their exchange at the first opportunity, her eyes gleaming unnaturally. Uncle pressed on: “In any case, I hope we may meet frequently hereafter. Depending on circumstances, I may even request your stay at the tower. Where might your residence be?” The beauty hesitated slightly. “I can only say I have no fixed abode. However, as I intend to accept most social invitations henceforth, we shall surely meet within a week if you attend such gatherings yourself.” “No,” Uncle declared. “Though I’d resolved to decline such invitations and remain secluded at home, meeting you warrants attending every banquet without exception.” Overhearing this from the sidelines, O-Ura could no longer contain herself. “Uncle! Must you chase after someone who won’t even disclose their residence despite all this ceremony?” Uncle flushed with anger but quickly composed himself. “I deeply regret this creature’s behavior,” he apologized to the beauty. “Please disregard her words.” His glance at me plainly ordered O-Ura’s restraint. The beauty demurred, “Not at all—such remarks are natural when one cannot disclose their dwelling. Suspicion from strangers is inevitable.” “To doubt you is unthinkable!” Uncle insisted. “Pay no heed and kindly share your designs for Ghost Tower and its clock mechanism in full.” “I fully intend to,” she assured him, “but not in such company. I shall explain when we’re alone—as already arranged with your nephew.” O-Ura’s voice sharpened further: “Uncle! However I try to hold my tongue, I cannot! Her words obstruct both Michisan and me! To invite guests who thus slight their hosts—such discourtesy isn’t done these days! I won’t endure this charade! Come Michisan—let us withdraw! This ‘guest’ refuses our company!” Her tone dripped venom. Though Uncle must have seethed, his habitual restraint prevented proper rebuke. As he struggled to apologize anew, the beauty—now beyond conciliation—rose abruptly. Signaling Torai Fujin with a glance, she departed with silent dignity that transformed ruined dinner into regal exit procession. Would even an angered queen withdraw thus? How starkly this contrasted with O-Ura’s crassness! I couldn’t deny the chasm between these women’s breeding. The mysterious beauty was no wet nurse’s foster child.

Uncle withdrew to his room in extreme displeasure before I could even apologize to O-Ura on his behalf. When I then turned to O-Ura myself, mere harsh scolding proved insufficient—I glared at her in wordless fury. My breath at that moment must have scorched her face with its heat; I burned with anger fierce enough to breathe flames. Unfazed, she retorted: “Why do those great eyes of yours blaze so? Don’t you realize how deeply Uncle has taken a fancy to that woman of unknown pedigree? You’re utterly blind! Left unchecked, she’ll seduce him into a second marriage. Then what becomes of us—waiting here to inherit his entire fortune?” Ugh—she only grows more detestable! I am no man to covet Uncle’s fortune! To speak of us “waiting to inherit” reeks of vulgarity! That she—a mere wet nurse’s foster child—could harbor such filth in her heart! Had I known, we’d never have shared a roof this long! Stunned into silence, I kept glaring—but O-Ura suddenly seized a chair, trembling with resentment: “Hateful! Hateful! That wretch deserves death a thousand times over! Look well, Michisan! If that woman dares cling to you or Uncle again, I’ll kill her and sever this calamity at its root!” She clings to no one—if anything, *we* pursue *her*! Yet I refused to believe O-Ura’s murderous words sincere... until witnessing what followed. Unconvinced still—our bond now lay severed. I loathed her; she no doubt reveled in mutual disgust.

Part 8: Furuyama O-Tori

It was truly regrettable that our long-awaited dinner had ended so drearily, but there was no helping it now. Determined to properly apologize to both the mysterious beauty and Torai Fujin regardless of circumstances, I left O-Ura behind and went to the room where the mysterious beauty—no, she was no longer a "mysterious beauty" but simply Matsutani Hideko—resided. What words could suffice for apology? If pressed, one might even label O-Ura a madwoman—her conduct tonight surpassed even lunacy. Unless I explicitly called her a madwoman, no apology would ever suffice. As I stood outside the door pondering this, an uncanny voice emanated from within. Indeed, Matsutani Hideko and Torai Fujin were arguing. “No—no matter what you may say, I cannot tell lies or deceive others. “If failure should come from being too honest, then failure is my true wish!” declared the mysterious beauty with resolute courage. Torai Fujin then scolded her for excessive honesty—“Why won’t you ever deceive others?”—revealing their opposition. What an admirable sentiment! To embrace failure through unyielding integrity—this was truly the mindset of a saint. My esteem for the mysterious beauty rose immeasurably. Then came Torai Fujin’s retort: “Circumstances dictate that one must tell some lies! What will you achieve with such foolish honesty?” Matsutani Hideko said: “No—the same applies in any circumstance. If my foolish honesty offends you, then let us part ways here. You may pursue your own path as you see fit; I shall walk mine alone. From the very beginning, our objectives have differed.” To intrude upon their ongoing quarrel—something one might do with a familiar acquaintance—was unthinkable for me, having only just met them today. Yet lingering like a detective to eavesdrop repelled me equally. Resolving to offer my apologies come morning, I retreated to my room. Likely Uncle too intended to make proper amends at daybreak.

The next morning, I went to the dining room slightly early. O-Ura had already arrived as well, but of course she did not speak to me. It seemed she had bribed the waiter with money to interrogate him about the mysterious beauty’s background. When he noticed me, he appeared flustered as if an obstruction had arrived—yet the waiter continued unabated: “Yes, O-Natsu, the foster daughter who murdered Okon, died in prison. But there was another maid around the same age—Furuyama O-Tori—who apparently also knew how to wind the clock.” O-Ura, having seemingly obtained valuable information, pressed eagerly: “Was this Furuyama O-Tori a beautiful woman?” The waiter replied: “Ah, she was an extraordinary beauty—though I never saw her myself, as this was before my employment here. People say she stood tall and slender like a noble lady, causing such a stir among the village youths that one even became her lover. About a month before Okon’s murder, she eloped with this man and vanished. After Okon’s death, they were traced to her hometown of Wakushū and summoned to court for questioning. But living so far in Wakushū, they could have had no connection to the local murder—they were merely examined as witnesses and promptly released. Rumor has it they later emigrated abroad together.” “By now, they must be in America or Australia.” “She must have had quite the disposition to imitate a noblewoman.” “Yes, it’s said she took great delight in dressing like a noblewoman and being admired by rustics.” “How old would she be now?” The waiter said, “Since she was nineteen or twenty when Okon was killed, she’d be twenty-five or twenty-six now. But as they say—beauty knows no age—so she’d likely still appear youthful.”

Whether satisfied with this alone, O-Ura ceased her questioning and came to my side. With an air of utter triumph, she demanded: “What did you make of that conversation just now?” “I didn’t hear anything at all.” “Michisan, your revered noblewoman has such an impressive background, doesn’t she? A mere maid who eloped with a lover she’d taken up, hiding her real name Furuyama O-Tori to put on airs with some grand title like Matsutani Hideko—ha!” “What? You think Miss Matsutani—no, the mysterious beauty—is that O-Tori person?” “It’s not just my opinion—isn’t it said that currently, aside from that O-Tori, no one else knows how to wind the clock? And Miss Matsutani—ohoho, such a fine lady!—didn’t she herself confess last night when Uncle pressed her that she’d climbed Ghost Tower many times before? If they’re not the same person, then what are they?” If this suspicion were true, it would make for a truly dispiriting tale. Admittedly, seeing her visit the grave of Wata Natsuko—the foster daughter convicted of matricide—might lend credence to the theory. As a former maid acquainted with her mistress’s foster daughter, perhaps she paid respects out of nostalgia for bygone days. Viewed thus, there’s little to refute. Yet I could not bring myself to believe that mysterious beauty to be some lowly maid’s descendant. She felt distinctly separate—utterly another being. My intuition had always been unerringly sharp; rarely had my premonitions proven false. This conviction that Matsutani Hideko and Furuyama O-Tori—that maid—were wholly different persons could not possibly be mistaken. Of this, I alone remained certain.

But with no real grounds for argument, I seethed with frustration in silence, racking my brains for some way to dismantle O-Ura’s suspicions—when Uncle Asao entered. In a despondent manner, he declared: “Ah—this morning I went to properly meet Miss Matsutani Hideko, hoping to apologize again for last night and inquire about the clock’s secret... but when I visited her room, they had already departed the inn at dawn—Madam Torai with her. Their destination remains unknown.” O-Ura grew increasingly triumphant. “Just as I thought,” she muttered to herself. “One can’t linger long in a place where many know one’s past.” Then, turning to me with derision: “Michisan, doesn’t a *morning flight* seem more befitting a noblewoman in your eyes than a nighttime escape?” How far did she intend to corner me? But I refused to engage, maintaining silence until the meal ended. Soon Uncle addressed me: “Since we’re here, let us now inspect the interior of Ghost Tower.” Thus we resolved to depart together—though this would mark our first true daylight examination of the tower. What discoveries might await within? Even the keenest reader could scarcely imagine.

Part 9: The Marube Family's Incantation

With our inspection of Ghost Tower finally set to commence, I went out to the inn’s entrance first. Uncle and O-Ura had yet to emerge—likely Uncle was reprimanding her over last night’s quarrel. Feeling it too pitiful for them to argue in my presence, they had apparently sent me ahead. While waiting, I opened the guest register at the front desk and found the names Matsutani Hideko and Torai Fujin recorded just before mine—meaning they had arrived at this inn a day earlier than our party and stayed only two nights there. Suspecting the handwriting here might match that of last night’s forged telegram, I scrutinized it thoroughly, but they differed entirely. The register’s script displayed remarkably elegant penmanship—a masterful hand one might call rare—likely written by the mysterious beauty herself, bearing no resemblance to the crude scrawl on the telegram request form. Discreetly bribing the front desk clerk, I asked who had filled out the register and learned it was indeed her. When I further inquired whether Torai Fujin had left any other writings, unfortunately none existed—had there been, I might have confirmed or dismissed my suspicions about the forged telegram.

I then asked what time the mysterious beauty had departed that morning. According to the front desk’s account, before six o’clock, she had come alone to settle their bill and left immediately. Around seven, Madam Torai had descended with a puzzled air, and upon hearing the mysterious beauty had already paid and departed, she hurried upstairs in surprise. Retrieving that lemur-like animal and their luggage, she rushed off in great haste to pursue her. From this, it appeared that last night’s argument I had partially overheard had ultimately failed to reach an amicable resolution—the mysterious beauty had abandoned Madam Torai and left alone. Whatever their relationship might be, they hardly seemed like kindred spirits.

Soon Uncle and O-Ura arrived as well. We boarded the prepared carriage together and soon reached Ghost Tower. There was nothing particularly unusual—only the same gloomy atmosphere as before. Leaving the upper tower for later, we first inspected the lower rooms. Given that generations of the Marube family had haphazardly added wing after wing over time, the number of chambers was considerable—though their layout proved rather haphazard, with some rooms whose purpose remained baffling. Yet Uncle seemed thoroughly pleased. “Hmm—if we renovate all these crude additions, it could become quite an intriguing mansion,” he remarked, finally revealing his intent to purchase it outright. With the lower inspection concluded, we proceeded upward into the tower.

Yet why had the mysterious beauty specifically come to open this secret door in the tower this morning? I concluded she must have left it ajar out of kindness toward us. Thinking there might be further traces of her visit elsewhere in the room, I looked around—only to find a single rose lying upon Okon’s bed. Before I could react, O-Ura spotted it first. “Oh ho ho! Someone came to this bed last night or this morning—this flower hasn’t wilted yet,” she declared, snatching it up. Exactly as I’d suspected—the rose was meant to inform me of the beauty’s morning visit. Could I let this token of goodwill fall into O-Ura’s vulgar hands? I nearly resorted to brute force to wrest it back—but alas! She seized something far more crucial than the flower: a single key hidden beneath it. Unperturbed by losing the rose, O-Ura immediately turned back to the bed. “Ah! Right under the flower—here’s an old bronze key,” she announced, picking up an exceptionally crude-looking key compared to modern ones. Clearly, the beauty had placed the flower atop the key to draw my attention with the message: “Take this key.” As I reached for it, O-Ura snapped, “Oh no you don’t! *I* found this key, so I’ll keep it until its true owner appears. I’m giving it to no one!” With that, she swiftly concealed it somewhere in her garments.

While Uncle and I were inspecting the upper clock chamber, it seemed someone—likely O-Ura—had tested the key in various locks. Suddenly, a cry rang out: "Oh! There's something here!" When I rushed over, I found her opening a wall cupboard near the bed's headboard. The key indeed fit this cupboard. Inside lay a single large book. When I pulled it out, I discovered an ancient, thick Bible—so magnificent that few in libraries or museums could rival it. Were an antiquarian to see this, they would have thrown away a fortune to display such a rarity in their study. "This must be one of the Marube family's treasures," I murmured while opening the cover. Strangely, even the inside covers were fully leather-bound with embossed gilt lettering. Among the text, two characters stood out prominently at the beginning: "Incantation." Recalling how the mysterious beauty had told me last night that this room held the Marube family's secret verses and urged me to memorize them, I realized this must be that incantation. An incantation—what could it mean? Though the characters were vivid, deciphering them proved arduous. At last, I managed to read them aloud.

明珠百斛　（A hundred *hu* of luminous pearls）　　　　　　王錫嘉福（The king bestows auspicious blessings） Mysterious monk’s plunder (Yōkondōdatsu); Night water dragon’s lament (Yasuiryōkokusu) Search the lakebed here (koko ni kotei o saguri); Return the family treasure to its chest (kachin to kuni kaeru). Contrary flames still blaze (gyakuen naho sakan nari); Deeply concealed among chambers (fukaku kore o oku ni zōsu) The bell tolls, verdure quivers;

Now rising, now descending; staircases wind through labyrinthine corridors. Where mystery resides (shinpi no aru tokoro); Silently open the diagram (mokushite toroku o hirake) What could it mean? First, I would like the readers to consider it themselves.

Part 10: Diagram In any case, this incantation must contain Ghost Tower’s secrets. If I could decipher its meaning, I would undoubtedly uncover Ghost Tower’s mysteries. “A hundred measures of luminous pearls; The king bestows auspicious blessings; A sinister monk’s plunder; The night water dragon weeps; Search now the lakebed’s depths; Return our treasure to its chest; Contrary flames still blaze; Conceal it deep within chambers; The bell tolls, verdure quivers; Faint glimmers flicker; Now ascending, now descending; Through winding stairs and halls; Where mystery resides; Silently open the diagram.” The verses used archaic characters unfamiliar in modern times, yet cross-referenced with Ghost Tower legends I’d heard fragments of, I could faintly speculate on the initial lines’ meaning. In plain terms: “A vast treasure (first line) bestowed by royalty (second) was stolen by a wicked monk (third) and sunk into dark waters (fourth). Now we scour aquatic depths (fifth) to restore our family’s heirloom (sixth). In these perilous times (seventh), we hide it deep within our home (eighth).” That might be the general idea. But the subsequent four lines baffled me utterly—bells tolling, foliage trembling, faint lights glimmering, endless ascents and descents—what could they signify? Were these verses deciphered, we might trace the treasure’s path and verify this legend’s truth. Yet their meaning eluded me—nay, likely eluded all. This very obscurity had preserved the secret for centuries. Still, hope lingered in the final couplet: “Where mystery resides, silently open the diagram.” Did this mean “Consult the blueprint for details”? If so, examining this so-called diagram might illuminate everything.

As I turned these thoughts over in my mind, Uncle descended from the clock chamber and declared, "No matter how I examine it, I can't discern how to wind the mechanism. There's nothing for it but to meet Miss Matsutani Hideko one final time and have her instruct us." But then he abruptly noticed the incantation and Bible behind him, exclaiming in astonishment: "Ah! This is momentous! This Bible has been passed down through generations of Marube family heirs as one of our treasured heirlooms! Though its meaning eludes us, every Marube patriarch has been obliged to recite this incantation on his birthday while contemplating its significance! Where in heaven's name did this Bible come from?" "It was in this cupboard just now," I replied. "That makes it all the more perplexing," said Uncle. "This Bible vanished years before Wata Okon acquired this tower. The family head at the time expended vast sums searching for it, yet it remained lost. Had it been in this cupboard then, he would have discovered it immediately—they emptied every compartment during their search. It seems this long-lost item has now returned through time itself. A Bible cannot reappear unaided—someone must have brought it here covertly." I increasingly correlated this with the mysterious beauty's words, convinced she must have placed this Bible here through kindness—perhaps intending for me to decipher the incantation. Yet how she had obtained this relic remained unclear. But given that every aspect of her defied comprehension, singling out this particular mystery seemed futile.

Uncle examined the Bible’s cover and said, “The lack of dust here shows it’s been handled recently. My conjecture seems correct.” I asked, “Your conjecture?” “When I first heard this Bible went missing years ago,” Uncle explained, “I suspected Wata Okon—the old caretaker here then—stole it. That greedy hag must’ve heard legends of treasure hidden in this tower and thought the incantation would reveal its location. She stole this Bible first, then later bought the tower itself.” “Then how did it return here?” “She likely had an accomplice,” Uncle said. “Since Okon couldn’t read the incantation, she must’ve given it to someone to study. When even they failed to decipher it, they probably despaired and returned it.” If true, this meant the mysterious beauty was that accomplice—a notion I utterly rejected. No woman of such grace would stoop to such villainy. Had she been complicit, she’d never have left the Bible for me to find. Even Uncle wouldn’t suspect her of being Okon’s partner if he knew she’d placed it here—yet I couldn’t reveal her involvement. As I seethed silently, O-Ura—ever perceptive—declared, “Exactly as Uncle deduced!” Then she hissed for my ears alone: “Doesn’t this prove Matsutani Hideko is Furuyama O-Tori, Okon’s maid? That schemer left roses and a bronze key to entrap you as her partner! She knows Uncle bought this estate and thinks his household needs a conspirator. If she can’t recruit you, she’ll deceive Uncle outright—forge a path to steal the treasure! She’s even the one who sent that forged telegram!”

Though I disagreed with this suspicion, to deny it outright would invite further argument, so I let it pass in silence. Meanwhile, Uncle repeated the incantation—“There must be a diagram—I’ve long heard it’s concealed within this book”—and shook the Bible spine-downward. From within emerged an ancient diagram measuring one *shaku* square, inscribed with “Marube Family Diagram.” This was it—this alone would unravel everything.

Part 11: Charlier’s Tiger What manner of thing was this Diagram? Both Uncle and I craned our necks to examine it—a blueprint of Ghost Tower’s interior, yet tragically abandoned mid-draft. A mere rough sketch, utterly useless. Where the incantation proved cryptic, the Diagram offered no further clarity. Uncle theorized that Ghost Tower’s architect had first composed the incantation, then begun drafting this Diagram—only to plummet into the tower’s depths and perish before completing it. Thus, the Diagram remained forever unfinished.

However, Uncle’s intention to purchase this tower was never originally for the sake of the incantation or Diagram. The rumored treasure had never been within Uncle’s consideration from the start; there was no reason to feel disappointment simply because the Diagram remained insufficiently understood. Nevertheless, this Diagram—passed down through the Marube bloodline alongside the Bible—now fell to Uncle, as the closest living relative, to safeguard. To this arrangement, even O-Ura could raise no objection. However, the bronze key she had retrieved was something she absolutely refused to relinquish. “I will most certainly put this to use and show you its purpose one day,” she declared to me. _Hmm—what could she possibly intend to use it for?_

Our inspection of the tower concluded here, and we three immediately returned to London. By the day after next, the purchase agreement had been finalized without incident, and Ghost Tower reverted to its rightful owners—the Marube bloodline. Though renovations ought to have commenced then, Uncle insisted he absolutely must hear Matsutani Hideko’s opinions regarding the repair designs. Thereafter, he resolved to accept every invitation that came his way—relying on that mysterious beauty’s promise that “attending all gatherings would lead us to meet again within a week.” Naturally, I too accompanied Uncle faithfully in hopes of encountering her one last time; O-Ura likewise tagged along with similar intentions. Yet our paths stubbornly refused to cross. During this period, Uncle somehow procured a book—titled *Secretary* (whether novel or treatise remained unclear)—published in America under Matsutani Hideko’s name. Showing it to me, he remarked: “She appears to be an American noblewoman. Given her authorship of such a work, she must be quite learned—perhaps even served as a private secretary to some American politician despite her gender.” I took the book and read it. As fiction, it held little entertainment value, yet it pierced through American political machinations with remarkable acuity, its prose exquisitely crafted. Its overarching aim seemed to ridicule America’s democratic republicanism while tacitly favoring British aristocracy and monarchy—a work unlikely to find favor stateside but sure to delight British literati, or so I thought. Sure enough, days later, a review in a critical journal lavishly praised the author’s genius while adding that said author had recently arrived in Britain, now basking in high society’s embrace and currently touring Surrey.

Around this time, a peculiar invitation arrived for Uncle from the Asakura household in Surrey. The peculiarity lay in the fact that the family’s master—Baron Asakura, known for his fondness for various amateur arts—wished to showcase a magic trick he had recently learned. Amateur magic tricks, like all dilettante pursuits, prove immensely entertaining to the performer but less so to the audience compelled to endure them. Yet Baron Asakura, ever the connoisseur, seemed mindful of this—he had appended a note mentioning that Charlier, an Italian menagerie exhibitor employing tigers and lions, had arrived in the neighboring county, whose show we might also attend. Though Uncle, disinclined toward such spectacles whether they involved tigers or lions, initially declared he would decline the invitation, upon reading a critical journal article, he abruptly changed his mind. As usual, O-Ura and I found ourselves dragged along. En route, we learned of a grave incident: one of Charlier’s massive tigers—captured in India or Africa—had broken through its enclosure overnight and vanished. Police officers bustled about with grave expressions, warning travelers individually. This was no trivial matter—turning back would be safer. I had no desire to end up devoured by a tiger just yet.

After this deliberation, we halted briefly on the road. Under normal circumstances, we would have turned back without question—but recalling that critical magazine article made retreat seem unbearable. For if its claims held true, the celebrated authoress of *Secretary* might well be attending the Asakura gathering. Worse still, should that brilliant woman fall prey to the tiger... Though he didn’t voice it outright, Uncle evidently shared this fear, for we resolved to press onward. Only O-Ura voiced complaints—yet if Uncle and I were going, she would never return alone. This debate delayed us considerably beyond our scheduled time, and by night’s ninth hour, we at last arrived at the Asakura estate.

Upon arrival, Lady Asakura alone greeted us, expressing concern over our lateness: “Now then—the magic show is just about to begin! We drew lots among the guests earlier—one person gets to assist in tonight’s trick. You’ll never guess who won! It caused quite the stir!” She alone seemed amused by her husband’s amateur theatrics, not even letting guests interject—a tiresomely common social spectacle. Feeling like smoke had engulfed our senses, we passed through a corridor blazing with electric lights toward the great hall, where undulating waves of laughter echoed. Just as we stepped inside, every lamp in the hall extinguished at once, plunging us into total darkness. Both Uncle and I gasped while O-Ura shrieked, “Ah!” Our hostess calmly explained from the shadows: “No need for alarm—this is merely the magic’s prelude! Like dimming lights before revealing a panorama’s marvel.” With halting steps, they guided us into the hall. Gradually, the space brightened until a bluish-white curtain ahead revealed a beauty’s silhouette moving like a magic lantern projection—though this “beauty” stood barely two feet tall, clearly an illusion cast by light. Yet as we watched transfixed, the shadow steadily swelled until it transformed into a real woman who smiled with ethereal grace. Readers—what would you think? This was none other than Matsutani Hideko herself! The enigmatic beauty Uncle and I had longed to meet! Now I grasped it—when Lady Asakura mentioned a guest chosen by lot for tonight’s trick, she’d meant this extraordinary woman.

Part 12: Master of Disguise The transformation of a magic lantern's shadow into an actual beauty wasn't particularly novel as illusions go. Yet executed with remarkable skill for an amateur performance, it drew thunderous applause from the entire audience. The ovation truly shook the hall's foundations—some enthusiasts even cried, "Long live Baron Asakura!" As we watched, this vision of loveliness—Matsutani Hideko—appeared fully committed to her host's whims. She glided to the central music platform, bowed gracefully to the assembly, and commenced her performance. Her virtuosity proved extraordinary—that singing voice might have inspired Eastern poets to liken it to "jade beads cascading from a nightingale's throat." Once more the hall erupted in applause—this time wholly for the mysterious beauty's artistry, leaving our baron host conspicuously unacknowledged. When the final note faded, her form gradually diminished until reverting to a lantern-projected shadow—a cherubic figure with feathered wings dancing through celestial gardens. While professional Negro minstrel troupes might achieve such seamless transitions, let us not flatter dilettantes—here lay the amateur's tragic limitation: though replacing shadows with living beauty proved feasible, reversing the metamorphosis exceeded their craft. In truth, they abruptly doused the lights post-performance, plunging the hall into darkness to mask their technical shortcomings. About half the guests offered diplomatic praise—"How refreshingly unpretentious!"—showcasing society's gift for artful dissimulation.

When the hall brightened again, Matsutani Hideko had returned to her original seat. The guests praised both the host and Hideko in unison—though none requested an encore of the host’s magic act, many clamored for another performance of Hideko’s music. Upon closer consideration, her artistry perhaps surpassed even the host’s. Amidst this, my uncle rose with evident delight, expressing his joy at their reunion and urging “Just one more!”—his demeanor akin to a lovestruck suitor. Hideko too seemed deeply moved by his presence, offering a special smile—yet modestly declined: “My music grows coarse upon second hearing.” Witnessing their tender exchange—so artless in its sincerity—I felt utterly defenseless, as though my very soul were melting to merge with Hideko’s. Of course I knew secrets shrouded her—had I not myself dubbed her “Mysterious Beauty”? Her history could never be as crystalline as her smile. Though her authorship of *Secretary* revealed literary refinement and tonight’s performance demonstrated musical cultivation, these very accomplishments could be seen as suspicious from certain angles. Yet no matter how enigmatic she remained, she was undeniably a distinguished noblewoman—one who would bring no disgrace as any man’s wife. Her frank declaration—“I bear a confidential decree”—showed no trace of deceitful intent. Observing Uncle’s excessive familiarity with Hideko unsettled me; not that I meant to interfere, but I approached her side with such force that I nearly shoved Uncle aside to offer my greetings.

At that moment, someone behind me shouted loudly enough for the entire crowd to hear—Miss Urahara. No, referring to her merely as “Miss Urahara” would leave readers confused—it was none other than O-Ura. Her legal surname being Urahara, others formally addressed her as “Miss Urahara.” Perhaps deeming it beneath her dignity to forcibly approach the mysterious beauty, she pointed at Miss Matsutani with her chin and cried, “You truly are skilled at transforming yourself!” For all its semblance of praise, “skilled at transforming” rang harshly in the ears. The audience pricked up their heads unnervingly. Miss Matsutani paid no heed, merely laughing lightly. “It wasn’t me who transformed—the magic lantern’s light did it for me.” Miss Urahara, who had clearly been awaiting this response, retorted, “Oh, don’t play the fool like that! This isn’t about tonight’s affair—I’m talking about a maid disguising herself as a noblewoman!” Now, that O-Ura—it seemed she intended to publicly humiliate this beauty by airing her long-held suspicion before the packed crowd: that this woman was none other than Furuyama O-Tori, the former maid and accomplice of old Wata Okon. Yet the mysterious beauty feigned complete incomprehension. “Why, whatever do you mean by that?” “Can’t you comprehend? I thought merely mentioning ‘accomplice’ would make you realize I meant Wata Okon’s maid without forcing me to spell it out and embarrass you! But since you feign ignorance, I’ll make it plain—I speak of Furuyama O-Tori, the maid dragged to court with her lover during the foster mother’s murder trial! Yes, a lowly servant! That wretch O-Tori—though a maid—masterfully disguised herself as a noblewoman! Astounding—no, *admirable* deception!” Hearing these words, I wanted to knock O-Ura to the ground—yet could not act. Part of me also wished to ascertain whether this beauty truly was O-Tori. It wasn’t that I harbored some scheming intention to play the innocent while letting O-Ura expose the truth, but this faint curiosity alone made me briefly delay striking her down. In that brief delay, the conflict escalated terribly.

Part 13: Every Hair Stands on End O-Ura's words dripped venom—artfully entangled yet cutting to the quick. This brand of verbal evisceration belonged solely to women; no man could wield it. Had the mysterious beauty truly been Furuyama O-Tori—a lowly maid masquerading as nobility—she could never have withstood such an assault. She should have flushed crimson or faltered in panic. Yet the beauty remained utterly unshaken. With an air of polite bewilderment, she turned calmly to O-Ura and said, "How curious—listening to your words, one might almost think you're implying I *am* this Furuyama O-Tori—"

“No amount of playing dumb will help you now—there are those who know even about O-Tori crossing over to America afterward.” The mysterious beauty regarded Miss Urahara as either mad or utterly beneath her notice. “Oh? It’s you?” she said with a faint smile that vanished instantly. Had such a smile appeared on an ordinary face, it might have seemed mocking—yet on this exquisitely beautiful countenance, not a trace of disrespect could be detected. A smile brimming with charm wherever one looked—observing this scene, I conclusively discerned that this beauty, Matsutani Hideko, was not Furuyama O-Tori. Of course, even without witnessing this scene, no maid or servant could possibly author a book as excellent in its observations as *Secretary*—with a little thought, it should have been sufficiently clear she wasn’t O-Tori indeed.

After being brushed off so lightly, O-Ura grew utterly frantic. “Oh! Oh! So you’ll feign ignorance and claim you don’t know O-Tori?” The mysterious beauty replied: “No, I know O-Tori quite well. While I don’t know her current whereabouts, we were as close as friends in our youth.” O-Ura stood utterly dumbfounded by this candid yet simple response. Then, as if propelled by her shock, she sprang up crying, “How infuriating! No one supports me—not even you, Michikurou!” Though pitiable—having brought this humiliation upon herself through misguided suspicions—the utter futility of her public outburst must have been excruciating.

Uncle appeared deeply troubled, and I too found the situation untenable. As I moved to calm O-Ura, the Asakura family mistress embraced her like a child and admonished: “You’ve carried this willfulness since girlhood—it simply won’t do! First, one who suspects others shouldn’t voice such accusations publicly! Doing so only invites shame upon oneself. Especially when Miss Matsutani is the acclaimed author of *Secretary* and arrived here with impeccable credentials!” Whether this reasonable reproach had finally struck home, O-Ura snapped: “Very well—*I* was wrong! That woman’s clever enough to make everyone believe a mere maid is a true lady—how could I alone oppose her? Falling for her tricks proves my own stupidity!” Still insisting on demoting the mysterious beauty to servant status, she stormed from the room in fury.

Though I felt guilty toward Matsutani Hideko, I had no choice but to follow O-Ura and leave the room. I saw her being escorted by the mistress of the house—comforted all the while—into her assigned second-floor chamber. Though I immediately tried returning to the main parlor, an inexplicable awkwardness kept me lingering aimlessly in the hallway for nearly twenty minutes before rejoining the group. The guests seemed excessively entertained, having forcibly returned Hideko to the music stand—likely to mask their collective embarrassment—where she now sat once more at the koto. Yet her playing lacked its usual vigor, her demeanor oddly subdued. Beside her, my uncle—a gentleman whose solicitousness belied his age—dutifully turned the pages of her scorebook. It appeared he had profusely apologized to her during my absence.

Gradually, the guests began taking their leave one by one until only a few remained, bringing the gathering to its conclusion. Having finished her piece, Hideko descended and first came to my side, saying: “I truly apologize for having angered Miss Urahara so. I intended to withdraw to my room immediately, but everyone insisted on stopping me—they feared it would only make the quarrel appear more genuine.” “There’s absolutely no need for you to apologize. It was entirely O-Ura who made such baseless accusations against you.” “If only Madam Torai were here—she would have managed to make amends to everyone.” Hearing this, I finally noticed Madam Torai’s absence. “Oh, what happened to her?” “Upon hearing that the tiger from the menagerie had escaped,” said Hideko, “she declared she couldn’t risk having her precious lemur killed and fled all the way back to London.”

As she spoke, a servant brought a written note to Hideko, handed it over with a curt “Please review this at once,” and departed. Hideko murmured, “I wonder who sent this,” and opened it to read. I glimpsed the handwriting and immediately recognized it as O-Ura’s. *If this were a man’s doing,* I thought, *it would surely be a challenge to a duel.* As I pondered this, Hideko finished reading and moved to leave. I said, “If O-Ura summoned you, there’s no need for you to go. Let me meet her in your stead.” “No—I must go myself,” declared Hideko abruptly, striding into the corridor. At that moment, Uncle remained engrossed in conversation with another gentleman, showing no intention of seeing her off. Resolving to accompany her myself, I followed into the hallway—my anxiety over what fresh conflict might erupt between O-Ura and Hideko proving unbearable. Emerging into the corridor, I found Hideko already far ahead, turning right. By the time I reached that spot, she had proceeded to the staircase and entered the gunroom beneath it—a chamber stocked solely with firearms. As I puzzled over why one would hold a meeting in an armory, a female figure crept from the stairwell’s shadows: O-Ura. Her furtive movements resembled a thieving cat pilfering goods. Expecting her to enter the gunroom next, I watched instead as she locked its door from outside. *Good heavens—she’s trapped Hideko inside!* Though baffled by her motive, I hurried over—only to see O-Ura already ascending past the staircase’s midpoint. She peered down through the gunroom window before climbing out of sight to the second floor. My suspicion of her actions deepening, I tested the door—undoubtedly locked, its key taken by O-Ura. With no alternative, I ascended to peer through the same window she had used. Dear readers—no human word like “shock” could convey what I felt then. Every hair on my body stood erect; I feared my very flesh might petrify. For there in the gunroom loomed an enormous tiger, crouching low on its forelegs to spring at Hideko. At last I understood—O-Ura had lured her here knowing full well the beast lurked within.

Part 14: The Tiger Is Already Upon Me

How shocked I was—readers need only imagine themselves in my position at that moment to understand—for this shock defies all description through pen or speech. I can only leave it to each reader’s imagination. Though it lasted but an instant, my mind raced in all directions. First, I was appalled by O-Ura’s cruelty—no matter how enraged she might have been, to deceive someone into entering a place akin to a tiger’s den, then lock them in and abandon them? What manner of act was this? I had never imagined O-Ura capable of such malice; I utterly lost all affection for her. How loathsome—to have lived under the same roof with O-Ura under the pretense of a fiancée’s promise! Yet what pressed more urgently was how to rescue Matsutani Hideko from the tiger’s jaws. I was astonished to see her so utterly calm even now—so composed as she faced the beast in a staring match that one might think her unaware of its terror. Truly, this was the very embodiment of composure under pressure. How could a sensitive soul remain so unshaken in such circumstances? Even the tiger seemed momentarily bewildered by her audacity, cautiously assessing her resolve rather than striking. But it would not hesitate forever. To save her, I had to act now—now, before it was too late.

Though utterly clueless about what to do, I couldn't abandon her. Desperation crystallized my resolve—I would leap from this window into the gunroom, placing myself between the tiger and Hideko as bait. Let the beast maul me instead, buying her time to escape. The drop itself posed little challenge; my athletic training made such feats routine. Yet physics betrayed my intent—instead of landing between them, I crashed behind the tiger. No matter—the impact alone should startle it into turning. A predator sensing sudden movement at its back would surely pivot to face the threat. When it turned around, two possibilities remained: either it would immediately seize and kill me, or flee through the window it had entered from. If it chose flight, that would be our salvation. The window—presumably the tiger's point of entry—stood directly opposite Hideko's door, left wide open to the garden. Should the beast decide to leave, it could depart freely. The sole complication lay in its need to step over my fallen body to reach that exit. Would it calmly cross without harming me? Though uncertain, I had no alternative—I entrusted my fate to heaven and proceeded.

My resolve formed in an instant—though describing it would take time, in truth, less than two minutes had passed. Being one to act the moment a decision crystallizes, I gripped the window ledge and lowered myself feet-first toward the tiger’s rear, dangling straight before releasing my hold. I landed behind the beast with a resonant *thud*. Though my gymnastic training should have allowed me to drop gracefully without falling, my agitated state betrayed me—I collapsed sideways upon impact. Even Matsutani Hideko, who had maintained her calm composure while locked in a staring match with the tiger, now cried out sharply—something like “*Mr. Marube!*” Almost simultaneously, the tiger lunged at me like an unfurling umbrella. Though resigned to death, I refused to be devoured without resistance—I would fight to the bitter end. I tried to spring up and repel it, but the beast’s stifling stench assaulted my nostrils, its hot breath steaming against my face. This alone nearly made me faint—all thoughts of combat vanished as I braced for death. Zoo visitors might never imagine tigers reek so foully, but pinned beneath one, I marveled at how its odor seared my eyes and choked my breath. Realizing struggle was futile, I lay motionless as it rolled me over with massive paws and opened its maw to crush my skull—until a gunshot rang beneath my ear. The tiger recoiled with a thunderous roar, only to collapse like a crumbling mountain when a second shot echoed through the room. Who had shot it dead?

Part 15: A Hint of Doubt Who could have shot the tiger for me? That person was indeed my savior. In truth, I—driven solely by the desire to rescue the mysterious beauty—had recklessly leapt into this room without gauging my own strength. However formidable my physical power might be, subduing a tiger bare-handed was impossible. Had no one shot it as they did, not only would I have been killed, but even the mysterious beauty Hideko would have fallen prey to the beast, rendering my original wish to save her utterly futile. Thus, whoever slew this tiger became Hideko’s savior as well. But wait—what had become of Hideko herself? Was she truly safe? I rose and scanned my surroundings, only to find Hideko unmistakably standing before me, gun still in hand. Before I could utter a word in my daze, she spoke calmly: “Oh—you’re unharmed? I feared terribly I might accidentally shoot you.” She set the gun on a nearby table and approached as if to tend to me. Ah! I had sought to save the mysterious beauty, yet she had saved me instead. To think my savior was this very beauty—how could I resent it? I said: “Your composure astounds me. I owe my life entirely to you.” The mysterious beauty smiled. “You jumped through that window to save me, didn’t you?” “Yes, that’s true—but try as I might, I couldn’t subdue the tiger myself. On the contrary, it was you who saved me.” “No—it was entirely I who was saved by you.” “When I first entered this room and noticed the tiger, I knew I had no choice but to shoot it. However, if I had hastily reached for the gun, the tiger would have realized and pounced immediately. I waited, hoping for even a brief moment when it might turn its attention elsewhere. I’d heard from a traveler that showing any fear when encountering a wild beast seals one’s fate, but maintaining absolute calm and boldly locking eyes with it would prevent an attack—that the creature would simply observe us cautiously. Following that advice, I held my ground until you leapt in. When the tiger turned toward you, I finally had the chance to grab the gun. Once armed, I could have fired immediately, but I needed to ensure a single shot to its vital spot. And I took great care—what if I’d accidentally struck you instead?” “Well, even so, there was a gun properly loaded with bullets, wasn’t there?” “Yes. This morning, when we heard the tiger had escaped from the menagerie, the master of this house said we must keep bullets loaded at all times in case it wandered here. He gathered several guests staying at the house into this room and made everyone promise to signal others immediately upon spotting the tiger, then rush here to retrieve the guns. As I had been lodging here for two or three days prior, I was present in this room at that time.” I said nothing, merely marveling at the host’s thorough preparations. Overwhelmed by emotion, I unconsciously seized both of Hideko’s hands in mine and exclaimed from the depths of my heart, “Ah, thank you!”

Startled by the gunshot, many people rushed to the room. At their forefront was the host of the house, who tried pushing open the door from outside. “How strange—I had left the key in the lock earlier so anyone could open it, but now it’s gone,” he said. He then fetched a spare key from somewhere, unlocked the door, and entered. “That must have been the signal we agreed upon earlier,” declared the host. “Where is the tiger?” He looked around the smoke-filled room and declared, “Ah! So you’ve already shot it, Mr. Marube? As expected of one who boasts daily of his hunting prowess—such efficiency!” “No, it wasn’t me—Miss Matsutani was the one who shot it.” The host declared, “My admiration grows ever deeper! Truly, Miss Matsutani’s marksmanship rivals any man’s—no wonder she resided in America. What a pity I missed this tiger hunt!” He showed no awareness of the bizarre circumstances under which Hideko and I had entered this room—naturally so, for those who knowingly lure others into tiger-infested chambers or leap through windows like mad deities have few parallels in civilized society.

The guests clamored with questions: “How did you kill it with just one or two shots?” “How did you even find the tiger?” Some pressed further—“Why on earth would a tiger come into this room?”—as though expecting us to read the beast’s mind. But Hideko, clearly unwilling to cast suspicion on O-Ura, answered with deliberate nonchalance. Her composure led everyone to assume we’d simply discovered the tiger sleeping here and shot it stealthily. I marveled anew at her noble restraint—until I noticed one guest harboring quiet doubts: my uncle. Though typically reserved, his years as a prosecutor had honed an undimmed sharpness. “Still,” he interjected, “isn’t it odd that this door was locked from outside with the key missing?”

Part 16: Heavy Luggage

Uncle’s suspicion was indeed entirely reasonable, yet no one could imagine there existing a malicious prankster bold enough to lock both me and the mysterious beauty in that room from outside—especially since the guests were now gathered around the tiger’s carcass, exchanging animated commentary. They paid no heed to such a grim inquiry until one among them remarked, “Well, in such chaotic moments, there’s bound to be some absurd tale that defies sense afterward! Most likely, Baron Asakura yanked the door handle without turning it properly—mistaking an unlocked door for a locked one.” A couple of guests laughed mockingly. “Exactly! Exactly! This one’s another tale to add to the collection!” Baron Asakura began formulating an explanation but—whether fearing deeper scrutiny might implicate a guest’s honor or genuinely believing his own error—ultimately joined their mirth. “Well!” he guffawed, clutching his sides theatrically. “At least we had a spare key! Though I can’t recall whether I turned it left or right—had there been none, I might’ve yanked that unlocked door until my arm popped clean off! Ah ha ha ha!” With this lighthearted display, Uncle’s suspicions vanished like smoke.

Yet Uncle himself remained unconvinced. While the guests chattered volubly—some critiquing the tiger’s carcass, others praising Miss Matsutani’s marksmanship, still others commending Baron Asakura’s foresight in keeping firearms loaded since noon—he persisted in scrutinizing the room. From the corner of my eye, I watched him feigning disinterest until he finally retrieved what appeared to be a scrap of paper from beneath the table and slipped it into his pocket. The night passed without further incident worth recording. The following morning, I went early to my uncle’s chamber to pay my respects. He had apparently risen before me, seated at his desk and sunk deep in contemplation—his posture recalling his prosecutor days spent poring over criminal dossiers. When he noticed me, he turned and barked curtly: “Fetch O-Ura here.” Startled that Uncle might have already uncovered O-Ura’s scheme, I obeyed—only to learn she had risen earlier still, departing for London at dawn with her luggage hastily packed. This could only mean she had fled in panic.

I immediately reported the matter to my uncle. After hearing it, Uncle—showing no surprise—spoke in an even graver voice: “Last night’s incident must have been O-Ura’s doing.” “Wh-what?!” I exclaimed. Though he seemed unable to deduce that I had descended through the window from the opposite direction, I nonetheless admired his sharp discernment. I asked, “How did you suspect such a thing?” “Look at this,” said Uncle, presenting a scrap of paper. The message read: “As there is urgent matter I wish to discuss, please come to the gunroom at once. Should you hesitate out of fear of me, know this above all: it shall serve as proof that you are Furuyama O-Tori. From Urahara Urako.” So this was the note Uncle had retrieved last night—Hideko must have dropped it when she entered that room while holding it and reached for the gun. This single scrap of paper explained everything. I could muster no retort; I merely bowed my head before Uncle. He declared: “You shall depart for London at once to summon O-Ura. After interrogating her personally, she must offer Miss Matsutani Hideko a full apology from her own lips.” A perfectly reasonable demand. I replied: “Understood—I’ll leave for London immediately. But what if O-Ura refuses to come here?” “Then I shall go myself,” Uncle declared resolutely, leaving no room for objection.

I returned to London immediately, but O-Ura had already fled from here as well, having packed her belongings. She left me only a hastily written note: "I am astonished you would thwart my carefully laid plans even at the cost of your life. How deeply you love that woman—and how little you care for me—is now abundantly clear. As you well know, I never harbored affection for you from the start; our engagement existed solely to prevent the Marube inheritance from falling to outsiders. Now I revoke that promise. Let us become clean strangers henceforth, free to wed whomever we please." "A marriage without love will only end in mutual obstruction and bitterness—last night’s events have made this abundantly clear. I hereby depart for the continent today under Konsai Fujin’s escort and shall return once you have tasted the loneliness of my absence. During my leave, that maid will undoubtedly melt Uncle’s resolve—and yours—to usurp the Marube household, yet I can do naught to prevent it. You and Uncle are already hearts liquified by her craft. Her ambition stretches even to seizing the treasure said to lie beneath Ghost Tower. The profound secret she conceals is plain from that grotesque glove she never removes from her left hand, no matter the occasion. Should you or Uncle seek to wed her, ensure she first surrenders that glove. This much I warn you: if you fall prey to her schemes, know that your ruin springs solely from your own folly—I wash my hands of it."

I scoffed—“What nerve!”—yet felt elated to be released from my engagement to O-Ura. Now free, I could court Hideko as ardently as I wished without restraint—even propose marriage if desired. This liberation felt like shedding a heavy burden, but indulging in personal joy was unthinkable now. I rushed to visit Konsai Fujin, O-Ura’s known associate, yet fate conspired against me: at every turn I arrived moments too late, trailing her path until an entire day was wasted. Naturally, I telegraphed Uncle of this failure. The next day saw me racing until dusk without success; on the third day, I pursued her to Dover Port only to find O-Ura and Konsai Fujin’s party had sailed ahead of me. Dejected, I returned to Uncle’s London residence—where his telegram awaited: “Do not come. I return shortly.” Do not come? What madness was this? After all this trouble, it seemed Uncle had apologized to the mysterious beauty and reconciled without awaiting my return—he should be hastening back to London! What did “return shortly” signify? Could he—could he be lingering there, unable to tear himself from Matsutani Hideko’s company? Perhaps O-Ura’s letter held truth after all—this suspicion gnawed at me relentlessly. Though forbidden by Uncle’s explicit order, I couldn’t force my way back either. Clawing at my skin with anxiety, I waited—two days, three days, four days—until Uncle returned radiant. He summoned me immediately to a private chamber, his formerly somber countenance startlingly rejuvenated. “Now then, Michikurou,” he declared, “there’s something requiring your congratulations! Truly auspicious news!” I stiffened. “Y-yes... Congratulations then,” I managed, my voice strangling in my throat. “At my age,” Uncle continued, “nothing could bring greater joy.” For me—no joy whatsoever. “Truly splendid! The author of *Secretary* herself!” “Wh-what? Matsutani Hideko?” “Precisely! That Matsutani Hideko—moved by my kindness—has finally given her promise.” My voice deserted me entirely. With a throttled effort, I forced out: “When... will your wedding occur?” The agony of that question—may you never know it.

Part 17: A Cunning Preface To my question—“When will your wedding take place?”—Uncle looked utterly astonished. “What are you saying? A wedding?” I stared in bewilderment. “Your wedding with Matsutani Hideko—” Uncle burst into laughter. “Ah ha ha! How absurd! You think this fifty-year-old man would remarry? No—I’m adopting Matsutani Hideko as my daughter!” Hearing this was excruciatingly awkward—yet secretly thrilling. If Hideko were to live permanently in this house as Uncle’s adopted daughter alongside me, who could say what favorable winds might soon blow our way?

My uncle continued explaining: “Though I wish to announce it immediately, at her request, we will formally introduce her as my adopted daughter during the housewarming banquet once the Ghost Tower’s renovations are completed and I have moved in.” “Until then, Hideko will remain at the local inn as before and come to this house daily.” “What would she be coming here for?” “To assist with my writings. In truth, even while at the Asakura residence, I had her handle letter ghostwriting. As expected of *Secretary*’s author, her penmanship and composition surpass even the clerks I employed during my tenure.” “From now on, she will visit daily to consult on the tower’s renovation plans and organize my study. She possesses remarkably insightful ideas on such matters—it’s as though I’ve gained a secretary-daughter combined.” Then, as if recalling something, he asked, “By the way—what became of O-Ura?” I recounted how O-Ura had departed abroad with Madame Konsai and explained that our engagement had been annulled. With solemnity, he said, “I too never imagined O-Ura harbored such malice when arranging your union. The dissolution was inevitable. In its stead, you shall undoubtedly secure a far more distinguished fiancé.” His meaningful tone left no doubt this “distinguished fiancé” meant Hideko. A chill crept down my neck.

As our conversation was nearing its end, an attendant came to inform me that a strangely dressed child was requesting an audience. Assuming it might be a beggar seeking alms, I excused myself from my uncle’s presence and went immediately to the entrance. There stood a grubby child of about fifteen or sixteen who abruptly produced a provincial newspaper and demanded with brazen directness, “I’m the one who sent that telegram in the advertisement for someone else. How much’ll you give me if I tell you who hired me?” Given my ongoing suspicions about who had forged the telegram luring my uncle near Ghost Tower, I felt a flicker of hope. First appraising the child’s appearance—judging this sum sufficient—I offered, “Three pounds.” But the child merely retorted, “That ain’t enough,” and began briskly walking away. “Wait! How much do you want?” “Ten pounds.” “But the person who hired me sent a letter saying if I keep pretending I don’t know about this advertisement, they’ll give me five pounds two months from now. It’s better for me to follow their instructions.” Seeing that someone had tried to buy this child’s silence with an extra five-pound bribe, they must truly fear exposure. Therefore, since their forged telegram clearly served a deeper purpose, I too had to uncover the sender’s identity at all costs. “Fine—here’s ten pounds,” I said, presenting the exact amount in banknotes. The child retorted, “Even with this, I had travel expenses coming here—hardly worth my while.” After this cunning preface, the child began to explain.

Part 18: Uncanny Path

According to the child’s testimony, a widow known as the “wrinkled old woman” lived a modest life growing flowers at a place called Senkusa-ya, located just seven or eight chō from Ghost Tower. This child—a delivery boy employed by her—explained that one day, a short-statured woman around fifty had come to purchase flowers. Before leaving, she secretly summoned him into the shadows and requested he send a telegram without informing anyone, offering one pound as hush money to remain silent indefinitely. The next morning while delivering flowers to a rural hotel, he claimed to have seen this same woman departing the inn while carrying a lemur-like animal larger than a dog or cat. That was all. From this, it became clear the perpetrator behind the forged telegram was none other than Torai Fujin—Matsutani Hideko’s attendant. Though the boy’s account left little room for doubt, I pressed him for corroborating evidence. He produced a letter received five days later, written in the same crude handwriting I had seen on the telegram request at the post office: *“Say nothing of the telegram. Do not respond to newspaper ads. Keep this hidden until two months from now and bring this letter for a five-pound reward—I swear it.”* Satisfied, I paid the promised sum and dismissed him. The thought brought me little joy. Of course, this matter was unknown to Matsutani Hideko—no longer should I call her “the mysterious beauty”—and had been entirely concealed from her. Yet to think her attendant had acted thus filled me with vague unease. That they had forged telegrams to lure my uncle here suggested grave intentions toward him. In that case, O-Ura’s suspicions might hold some truth. But no—no! Since Hideko knew nothing of it, there was no reason to suspect her due to Torai Fujin’s crimes. I strove to quash such doubts within myself. Yet in truth, when I met Hideko and saw her beautiful face, those suspicions vanished without effort—she bore no countenance of one who would commit evil.

After this, Hideko came to the house daily—or rather every other day or so—often accompanied by Torai Fujin, though occasionally alone. Since she and Uncle had already formalized their adoptive relationship as father and daughter, their closeness was natural, but I too grew increasingly intimate with her. From that single act of slaying the tiger onward, I considered Hideko the guardian of my life—no, even without that deed, I would have deemed her my life's protector regardless. If she didn't show her face to me daily, my life would surely wither; Hideko herself seemed convinced she owed her survival to me. She appeared deeply gratified by my reckless courage in leaping behind the tiger despite mortal peril, and seemed to believe clinging to me henceforth would shield her from any adversary. My gratitude became unbearable. Of course I'd defend her against any foe—yet I yearned to claim the status granting me rightful authority to protect her. Confronting enemies with "Why harass a woman who's neither my wife nor kin?" felt precarious; proper protection required irrefutable proof of possession—without it, my footing might falter at crucial moments. Though securing this right now seemed no great challenge—a well-timed proposal would likely suffice—each time I considered it, O-Ura's warnings unexpectedly surfaced in my mind. O-Ura had fiercely doubted Hideko's origins—but who was she truly? Uncle must have verified her background before adoption, yet he never shared it with me. Whenever I broached the subject, Hideko skillfully deflected inquiries, steering conversations elsewhere. The sole detail I gleaned was that before coming here, she'd served as secretary to some administrator elected by a Louisiana state legislator in America, authored his book titled *Secretary*, and left the United States before its publication.

Several months passed in this manner until at last the grand renovations of Ghost Tower were completed, and preparations were made to move in. To celebrate both the relocation and Hideko's formal adoption as daughter, a banquet was planned. My uncle, overjoyed, cast aside all lingering resentments and sorrows, declaring his intent to "broaden his horizons and enjoy his remaining years." Invitations were sent not only to friends but even to those long estranged or bearing minor grudges—adopting a rare open-door policy that welcomed all comers. I marveled that this mansion, once whispered fearfully as "Ghost Tower" by townsfolk, now stood transformed into a radiant venue for celebration—and would soon become our residence. The thought filled me with an eerie novelty, as though we were settling in some fantastical realm. What manner of place was this? What strange events might await us here? Such suspicions lingered as I arrived at the tower's village by train far earlier than the banquet's appointed hour—before five o'clock—and strolled leisurely from the station along the two-and-a-half-mile path without hiring a carriage. In retrospect, this walk marked our family's uncanny procession onto a most peculiar stage.

Part 19: Torisu-an As I strolled leisurely and drew near Ghost Tower, something caught my attention. Ghost Tower stood without true neighbors. The closest dwelling was a small villa-style building locals called Torisu-an. Though separated from the tower by over two blocks—with nothing but trees between them—one might grudgingly call it adjacent. According to hearsay, a Kyoto pleasure-seeker had built it decades prior as a summer retreat. But after old woman Okon’s murder at Ghost Tower years ago, the owner deemed the area ill-omened, stripped its furnishings, and abandoned it to rot like the tower itself. Each previous visit had shown me its decaying “Unfurnished—For Rent” sign. Now that placard had vanished like Ghost Tower’s own specters. The interior bore signs of hasty refurbishment—cleaned surfaces inside and out—while luggage carted from the station sat boxed within, marking today’s move-in. Wondering idly about this tenant, I glanced at its window. Someone stood there—they snapped the shutter closed as if recoiling from my gaze. Perhaps they’d been leaning out to observe me before retreating. Though unidentifiable, the watcher seemed a young woman—the instant before closure flashed a glimpse of gaudy red kimono.

However, unable to investigate further, I proceeded directly to Ghost Tower. The transformation from its previous state was staggering; with just one round of maintenance, it had been astonishingly revitalized to such an extent that the tower's age seemed to have regressed by three or four generations. Particularly striking were the hedges encircling the mansion—once overgrown into shapeless ruin, now meticulously trimmed and reknotted into forms so artful that I fancied not even England could boast hedges of such exquisite charm, though I make no boast of it myself. Compelled to inspect the exterior before venturing inside, I followed the hedge's perimeter until emerging at the rear garden's moat-side embankment. Continuing along the embankment brought me to the grave of Wata Natsuko—the murderess who killed Okon and died in prison—as readers well know. Having previously witnessed the mysterious beauty visiting this tomb with great suspicion, I now found another figure lingering before it. Whether paying respects or not remained unclear, but this visitor was unmistakably male—a splendid gentleman appearing to be thirty-four or thirty-five years old.

Hearing my footsteps—perhaps thinking he’d been caught in some wrongdoing—the man attempted to leave with feigned nonchalance. Though I couldn’t detain him, my desire to glimpse his face drove me to quicken my pace toward where his features might become visible. He couldn’t flee directly backward. At a spot slightly removed from the grave, separated by three ken, we faced each other. Even were I to encounter him in a crowd a decade hence, I would never mistake his visage—not grotesque, yet unnervingly smooth, like an actor’s face that might incite women and children to clamor. Handsome, yes, but repellently so; Hideko herself would surely despise it. He seemed poised to offer a greeting but, noting my suspicious glare, reconsidered and began retreating step by step. Where could he intend to go? I couldn’t rest without witnessing his destination. I kept watching as he took the path I had come by, descended from the embankment beyond the hedge, and soon disappeared from view. In that interval, I ran to the hedge—only to see him emerge outside, deep in thought and never glancing back. If he won’t turn around, I’ll keep pursuing him, I resolved. Yet perhaps he refrained from looking behind precisely because he knew he was being followed—how characteristic! Eventually, he entered that Torisu-an cottage. Could this be its new occupant? Even if not the owner, his lingering near O-Natsu’s grave suggested some ulterior purpose. When I considered this alongside the woman who had watched me from Torisu-an’s window and its sudden occupancy, it all seemed far from coincidental.

Part 20: Unexpected People

I couldn’t shake my preoccupation with Torisu-an. Who had rented it? Why had they done so? Who was the woman who had watched me from its window? And for what purpose had one of its residents been lingering at the murderess’s grave?

Before long, the time for the banquet arrived. Uncle had come to the house the previous day accompanied by several servants, and Matsutani Hideko had arrived that morning—both were in extraordinarily good spirits. Guests came in great numbers, streaming in one after another. Soon, Uncle finished announcing to all present his adoption of Hideko as his daughter, and the guests completed offering their individual congratulations. Thus came the moment to commence the dancing. Naturally, most eyes focused on Hideko; though everyone sought to be first to dance with her and made their requests known, she gave no proper replies. She appeared to be waiting pensively for someone. *Ah—she must intend to choose me as her first partner and has been refusing others for that reason,* I thought. Approaching Hideko, I said, “Miss Hideko, might I have the honor of sharing the first dance with you?” Yet she showed no sign of pleasure. “No,” she replied, “I have been declining all requests since earlier, for I believe someone whom I cannot refuse will arrive soon.”

“Oh? Could there really be someone more important than me?” I felt a twinge of jealousy. “Who is this person? Have you promised to dance with them tonight beforehand?” “No,” Hideko replied in an increasingly peculiar manner. “I made no promise. But should that person desire it, I cannot refuse. If I dance with another without their permission, I might be scolded later.” Only a father or husband could scold someone afterward. “Who is this person? My uncle?” “No, it is not Father.” Though her abrupt use of “Father” stood out—a title formally mandated days prior—I pressed harder: “If not Uncle, then who? Tell me their name!” Hideko laughed softly at my intensity. “Oh ho ho—you’ll understand soon enough.” “If you know, tell me now.” “Lawyer Gonda Tokisuke.” “Gonda Tokisuke?!” I exclaimed. “The lawyer who defended that murderess—” “Yes—the one who represented Wata O-Natsu at trial.” “Why do you respect him like a husband? What is he to you?” She hesitated slightly. “Whatever the reason... I must obey his instructions.” “I see. He’s your future husband then.” If not her betrothed, why would he command her obedience? How foolish I’d been—lavishing affection without deeper inquiry! What an idiot! Even Hideko herself clearly answered to another master. She should have confided sooner! That my feelings grew daily was something she must have known—this thought filled me with bitter resentment. Yet she calmly countered, “My future husband? What nonsense. I remain in no position to formalize such bonds.”

Though it was suspicious for someone other than a husband to be issuing commands, I felt immense relief that her future marital status remained unsettled. Unconsciously forming a smile, I was about to apologize for my earlier doubts when Torai Fujin suddenly rushed over. The woman grabbed Hideko’s hand and cried, “It’s dreadful—they’ve arrived! You must flee immediately! Now!” As she pulled Hideko away, she added bitterly, “What a shame—to have come this far only to encounter *him* now.” I had no inkling of what was happening, but the urgency of “flee at once” suggested grave circumstances. Torai Fujin, vexed by Hideko’s reluctance to escape, pressed on: “We can’t avoid meeting them entirely, but at least withdraw to another room for now. Compose yourself before facing them later. Look—they’ll be upon us any moment!” With that, she forcibly steered Hideko toward the bonsai room.

When I turned around to see who they feared so greatly, the group entering proved truly unexpected guests indeed. At their head stood my former fiancée Urahara O-Ura, hand-in-hand with that expressionless gentleman I had earlier noticed lingering near Wata O-Natsu’s grave—Takanawatari Nagazo, resident of Torisu-an cottage. Behind them trailed the Konsai couple who had accompanied O-Ura abroad. Hideko’s flight could only stem from dread of this party—though it pained me to imagine O-Ura suspecting her of being Furuyama O-Tori in disguise, I resolved to confront O-Ura and learn this gentleman’s name. Stepping forward, I positioned myself before her. With feigned composure she declared, “Michikurou-san, do you know this gentleman? He is Takanawatari Nagazo—foster son of poor Okon and former owner of this tower. He’s also the one who sold it to your uncle.” Now realizing this man was Okon’s heir, I grasped O-Ura’s scheme—since Takanawatari would surely recognize maid O-Tori’s face, she meant to expose Hideko’s disguise through him. Though her tenacity astonished me, why had Hideko fled from him? Considering Torai Fujin’s earlier words, it seemed she truly feared exposure.

Part 21: Chime Vessel O-Ura had undoubtedly come to reignite her war against Hideko. The previous battle had ended in failure at the very brink of what seemed certain victory—when she’d pushed Hideko into the tiger’s jaws. This time, she’d brought a fearsome ally: Takanawatari Nagazo. She likely intended to leave no room for failure. Indeed, if Hideko were truly impersonating the maid Furuyama O-Tori as O-Ura suspected, Takanawatari Nagazo would have exposed her disguise the moment he laid eyes on her. Yet how had O-Ura secured such a formidable ally? I later learned that during her three-month travels with Konsai Fujin, she had coincidentally befriended him at an Italian inn. This explained everything—O-Ura had been bombarding Uncle with apologetic letters for some time, desperate to return with Takanawatari and strip away Hideko’s façade at the earliest opportunity. Uncle, never one to harbor lasting resentment despite his stern prosecutor’s demeanor, had initially raged at her actions but soon softened. Still, he hesitated to permit her return outright, fearing it might slight Hideko. Yet Hideko herself—ever considerate—had inferred his dilemma and pleaded: *“If O-Ura remains barred from this house indefinitely on my account, it will seem as though I fear her interference. Please grant her return at once.”* From this alone, it was clear Hideko could not possibly be O-Tori—had she been the maid, she would have avoided O-Ura entirely rather than advocate for her reinstatement. Until now, I had clung fiercely to this logic. But witnessing Hideko’s abrupt flight moments ago left me unsettled—could she fear not O-Ura’s scrutiny, but Takanawatari’s? In that case, perhaps she truly was O-Tori after all.

Though I found myself wishing Uncle had never permitted O-Ura’s return, it was too late for regrets. Contrary to my unease, O-Ura seemed utterly composed—no longer the volatile woman of before, but serene as a true noblewoman. Her words and gestures now carried an inscrutable depth. Addressing me with deliberate clarity, she explained: “Mr. Takanawatari here was formerly known as Wata Nagazo, foster son of Wata Okon. Before his adoption, his original family name was Takada. Recently, due to obligations involving his birth family’s inheritance, he combined both surnames to become Takanawatari.” “Tonight, I should mostly introduce you to those I know.” Her words seemed laced with an intent to force an introduction to Hideko as well. I could muster nothing beyond a terse “Is that so?” I was astonished. “Ah—so the Konsai couple rented the neighboring house?” “I understand.” “The one who saw me from the window earlier and hastily hid was you, Miss Ura, wasn’t it?” I uttered with icy formality. She skillfully fabricated excuses, but in truth, this was undoubtedly part of her scheme to arrive unannounced and expose Hideko without giving her any warning. Even as she spoke, O-Ura kept glancing around the room. Though she searched intently for Hideko’s whereabouts, Hideko remained nowhere in sight. Finally losing patience, she declared, “I must offer my congratulations to Miss Hideko tonight as well. Oh, Michikurou—no, *Mr. Marube*—I bear her no ill will! Though people might assume I resent her for replacing me as this household’s daughter after my departure, that’s mere conjecture. As you know, I wasn’t expelled by Uncle—I left of my own accord, unable to endure his tyranny.” “And since it was my own doing, I’m actually delighted to have an adopted daughter follow me—yes, truly!” she declared with feigned cheer, addressing me so brazenly it bordered on obscenity. How could she have forgotten the very resentment that saturated the farewell letter she’d left behind? I found myself appalled anew. This wasn’t the willful but honest girl I’d known in childhood—no, this was the woman who’d deceitfully driven someone into a tiger’s chamber before removing the lock and fleeing. What wonder was there in her speaking falsehoods now?

O-Ura pressed again，＂Well，Mr．Marube—where is tonight’s leading lady，Miss Matsutani Hideko？＂ I reluctantly replied，＂She is likely dancing with someone in the ballroom．＂ As if suddenly recalling something，O-Ura declared，＂Come now，I shall dance too！ Come along，Mr．Takanawatari，＂ and attempted to lead him toward the ballroom． At that precise moment，the tower’s clock above began tolling with an unparalleled sound． For reasons unknown，Takanawatari started so violently at this noise that his entire body shook，halting mid-step．＂Ah—is it twelve o’clock？＂ he muttered almost involuntarily，counting the strikes on his fingers． Why twelve o’clock should terrify him remained unclear，but his face drained of color as he trembled like one encountering a ghost． Soon the clock ceased after only eleven strikes．＂Ah—eleven o’clock，＂ he heaved a sigh of relief，then seemed to register his own odd behavior for the first time．＂This clock’s winding mechanism holds secrets，＂ he explained．＂While my foster mother Okon lived，she permitted no one else to wind it．＂ ＂Hearing this sound revives those memories—it unsettles my nerves somehow，＂ he added． Yet this explanation failed to clarify why he had specifically feared twelve o’clock only to feel relief at eleven strikes． O-Ura paid no heed and turned away．＂A little dancing will steady your nerves at once． Come along，＂ she declared，steering Takanawatari into the ballroom． Resolved to check on Hideko’s whereabouts，I waited until O-Ura vanished from sight before slipping into the bonsai room where I presumed Hideko might be hiding． Even here，I encountered no ordinary matter．

Part 22: Behind the Bonsai The bonsai room, divided by various partitions, proved ideal for secret discussions. As dancing intensified in the ballroom, more guests sought respite here—gentlemen might commence marriage negotiations amidst the foliage, while lovers could hardly be prevented from exchanging whispers. Yet when I entered searching for Hideko, the dancing had only just begun, leaving the room empty. Though I scoured every corner, even Hideko—who I'd been certain came here—was absent. *Could she still be entangled in the ballroom, perhaps apprehended by O-Ura?* I retraced my steps to check, but Hideko remained nowhere visible. Instead, O-Ura stood before Uncle, vigorously introducing Takanawatari Nagazo while pressing some demand—likely compelling him to reveal Hideko's whereabouts for a confrontation. At least Hideko's absence offered temporary relief. She must have retreated to her room to avoid O-Ura. If so, I needn't force an encounter either. Withdrawing again to the bonsai room, I let the plants' fragrance clear my mind to properly contemplate Hideko's predicament. On such a night—when any crisis might erupt—I had to maintain razor-sharp clarity for instant decisions.

Having thought this, I reentered the bonsai room, sat down in the area most densely shaded by potted plants, and settled in to rest leisurely. Suddenly, from the large window to my right came the rustle of silk garments, followed by the muffled footsteps of a gentleman entering stealthily. They had clearly come from the ballroom into the garden and then circled around to here. Who was the woman? Who was the man? Though the room was well-lit, partitions blocked my view of them—just as they would have prevented them from seeing me. Disinclined to eavesdrop on private conversations, I considered slipping away quietly—but it was too late. The pair had already seated themselves barely a *ken* away from me. “Truly, Mr. Gonda—what am I to do? I believe my luck has run out,” declared none other than Hideko. Blood rushed to my head. So Hideko had come here with that lawyer Gonda Tokisuke to discuss her predicament! Gonda—the very man she had explicitly told me held authority over her affairs! For his sake, she had refrained from promising dances to anyone else! Now I had no choice but to listen—even had I wished otherwise, their words reached me unbidden.

“There’s no such thing as your luck running out,” said Gonda Tokisuke in a tone of feigned consolation. Though I hadn’t heard his voice in years, I recognized it instantly. He continued: “Hasn’t everything proceeded favorably thus far—even better than anticipated?” “If fortune truly aided me,” Hideko countered, “why would I suffer so?” “Your circumstances remain profoundly mysterious,” Gonda observed. “There exists no other soul in this world with a fate as singular as mine,” she replied. “I’ve exhausted every ounce of strength.” “Precisely why I offer my assistance.” “But you—” “No ‘buts,’ if you please.” His voice hardened. “Having aided you thus far without recompense, it’s only fitting I now claim my due.” “Haven’t I already rewarded you? You yourself refused monetary payment—since then I’ve obeyed every instruction—” “Ahaha!” His laughter rang hollow. “So you’ve granted me full authority over your person?” “What else could that signify as recompense? Even tonight, I awaited your directives above all others—” “You mean you reserved your dances for me?” Gonda’s tone softened with mock gratitude. “For that I must thank you—and do so sincerely. Yet having honored my wishes so completely, why reject this one essential request? A simple promise suffices: vow to become my wife in due course. With that alone, I’ll shield you from any conflagration.” “In any crisis,” he pressed, “I excel at forging escape routes—you know this well. Why refuse me?” Hideko sighed bitterly. “Must men always demand love or marriage? Can’t you aid a woman as comrades do—without binding promises?” “For others perhaps,” Gonda conceded. “But facing your beauty? No mortal man could remain content with friendship alone. Blame not our nature—curse the face that intoxicates us.” Her voice broke. “This face—this accursed face!” “None resent your beauty,” he countered coldly. “But consider: already besieged by foes, how will you survive my enmity should you refuse?” “Your hatred would exile me from this world—you know this.” “Then why not accept my protection? Without matrimony, no lasting alliance exists.” “You threaten me?” Her words trembled with outrage. “To coerce a desperate woman—is this a gentleman’s conduct? Having acted so basely, how dare you demand love? I’ll never wed one devoid of honor!”

“Whether I’m a gentleman or not,” said Gonda, “when every method fails, I’ll use threats—even force.” The altercation grew increasingly heated until Gonda finally moved to grab Hideko’s wrist. She sprang up as if to flee and bolted straight toward where I lay hidden. Though mortified she might think me dishonorable for eavesdropping, I had no choice but to rise—all other concerns forgotten in my single-minded urge to protect her. Gonda followed close behind. Beneath the bonsai’s shadow, where even the gaslight took on a bluish cast, the three of us stood face-to-face.

**Part 23: A Fleeting Moment**

Among the three who had faced each other, the least surprised was Hideko. Though momentarily startled, she quickly composed herself and moved into my shadow as if seeking protection—a remarkably resolute and calm temperament that would be rare even in a man.

Gonda Tokisuke stood frozen in shock. For several seconds, he stared mutely at my face before recognition dawned. “M-Marube Michikurou!” he stammered abruptly. “Of all people to be lurking here! Ah—this was inexcusably careless.” Though he plainly regretted being overheard, he—to his credit as a man of composure—departed without complaint toward the garden. I could make no sense of Gonda and Hideko’s connection. They shared no engagement, nor even mutual affection—Gonda burned with passion while Hideko remained utterly detached. Why then had she granted him such authority over her affairs? His coercion bore the shape of blackmail, yet lacked a blackguard’s crudeness; their exchanges held an almost fraternal intimacy, as if each knew the other’s every secret. This paradox might hold the key to Hideko’s “sacred mission,” but its workings eluded me completely—beyond even conjecture.

Perhaps ashamed of having drawn close to my shadow, Hideko withdrew as Gonda left and moved toward the ballroom—her demeanor utterly dejected. I stepped before her. “Miss Hideko—I wasn’t eavesdropping. You and Mr. Gonda came to where I was seated, leaving me no opportunity to withdraw.” “I don’t believe you came here to eavesdrop,” Hideko replied tersely. “But Miss Hideko—you just lamented whether a man could help a woman without expecting reward. Others may not know, but I, Marube Michikurou, wish to assist you with a pure heart akin to that of siblings. What are these enemies or exhausted fortunes you speak of? Confide in me so I can help.” “No, you cannot help me. No one but Mr. Gonda can.” “But he demands an unreasonable reward you cannot grant! Were it me, I would aid you as a brother—though I may not remain content with that role forever.” From her wilted posture, Hideko laughed with unnatural mirth—**“Ohohoho! Should the day come when ‘brother’ no longer satisfies you, Mr. Gonda would prove no different. I’ve resigned myself—there exists no man in this world who won’t eventually preach love.”** With this, she turned away.

Yet I persisted in following behind her, but Hideko finally stepped into the ballroom. And lo! The first to approach Hideko was none other than O-Ura. My greatest adversary—as I judged him—Takanawatari Nagazo stood there too, accompanied by my uncle. Had Hideko come here resolved to confront Takanawatari? Or had she carelessly assumed she might avoid meeting him? Or perhaps, despairing of exposure, she had steeled herself to face even that outcome? I could scarcely endure my anxiety. If Hideko were truly Furuyama O-Tori and Takanawatari exposed her here as a shape-shifting deceiver—no better than a female swindler undeserving of pity—even then, I found myself unbearably uneasy. Should even a single discourteous word escape Takanawatari’s lips, I resolved to strike him dead before he could finish it. Thus resolved, I remained steadfast at Hideko’s side without retreating a step.

My uncle first addressed Hideko: “The truth is, Miss Ura here insisted on meeting O-Natsu to personally apologize for her prior discourtesy. She implored me to locate O-Natsu’s whereabouts. Though I refused, her short-tempered nature would not heed denial—thus we have been searching together, as you see.” As Uncle spoke these words, Hideko’s eyes seemed to briefly—and unwittingly—meet Takanawatari’s gaze. For an instant, she appeared almost to tremble with surprise, though this was likely a trick of my own unsettled mind. When I looked again, her face remained as composed as ever, betraying neither fear nor joy. With dignified calm, she replied, “I see. However, there is no need for Miss Ura to offer me any apology.” O-Ura stepped forward as if declaring, “Now’s the moment!” “Miss Hideko,” she began with practiced eloquence, “when you address me so, I find it far more unbearable than any resentment—truly, I could vanish from shame! At Baron Asakura’s magic show, I called you a *maid*—such an outrageous thing to say! Now that I reflect on it, no matter how much you might despise me, I deserve it—no, I cannot bear this regret!” “No,” Hideko replied in an exceedingly soft voice. “I took it as nothing more than your jest—I neither dwelled on it nor have I remembered it.” Her response was gracious enough—a ritualized script for such occasions. “In recompense,” declared O-Ura with laughter that masked triumph beneath courtesy, “I’ve brought an old friend of yours today as proof of my apology! You *must* thank me for this—Ohohoho!” That mirth chilled me to despair—*all is lost*—yet Hideko feigned obliviousness. “An old friend of mine?” she echoed skeptically. At her words, Takanawatari stepped forward. O-Ura performed the introduction: “Here stands Mr. Takanawatari, whom you surely recall! Mr. Takanawatari—this young lady is now our family’s adopted daughter.” The moment their voices ceased, Hideko and Takanawatari locked eyes. My own heartbeat roared so loudly in my ears—*this* was truly a life-or-death moment. Watching Hideko’s expression as if my own fate hung in the balance, I found her stillness unnerving. Not a muscle twitched in fear or surprise; her composure mirrored the poised noblewoman I remembered. When I first met her, I had briefly wondered if she wore a mask—a suspicion swiftly dismissed—yet now, faced with her preternatural calm, that same doubt flickered anew. But only for an instant.

**Part 24: Like X-Rays** In hindsight, suspecting that someone's vivid living face might be a mask seems utterly absurd—of course it wasn't a mask. It was an ordinary face naturally formed of blood, flesh, sinews, and skin. I hadn't truly doubted it to that extent myself; I'd merely thought her beauty so striking it might as well have been a mask. This was never akin to a detective suspecting a criminal—*Is this truly a mask?*—no, absolutely not. This distinction must be clearly grasped by the reader.

It was not a mask, yet Hideko’s face at this moment somehow appeared almost superhuman—terrifying in its intensity. This was not due to any deliberate expression she forced; though a flicker of suspicion toward Takanawatari might have crossed her features, her overall demeanor remained unnervingly composed. It was precisely this preternatural calm that held an uncanny ferocity. I then observed Takanawatari’s face—he was likely scrutinizing Hideko with the same disquieted fascination. As previously noted, his face—unusually smooth for a man and rarely betraying emotion—had indeed flickered with malice when he first saw Hideko. Having been told by O-Ura that this “Hideko” was undoubtedly Furuyama O-Tori, he had arrived single-mindedly intent on exposing her, eager to strip away her facade. No other reason could explain such malice. Yet upon actually seeing her, he recoiled sharply; the malice dissolved into something resembling fear—likely realizing his mistake. But his tenacious nature reasserted itself. Steeling his resolve, he redoubled the intensity of his gaze, fixing it once more on Hideko’s face. His eyes now burned with extraordinary focus—had their light possessed X-ray penetration, they would have pierced through her abdomen to her spine. Still, he showed no sign of satisfaction.

I was anxious, but O-Ura verged on desperation—far surpassing even my own unease. Though human eyes couldn't physically intensify their glow beyond Takanawatari's piercing gaze, had such a feat been possible, hers would have outshone his radiance tenfold. My uncle wore a look of wary suspicion at the peculiar confrontation unfolding before us. Yet Hideko remained the picture of composure—utterly unflappable amidst this tension. When Takanawatari seemed to have scrutinized her face to his satisfaction, she finally opened her mouth with disarming guilelessness: "I'm afraid I don't quite follow. You spoke of an old friend of mine, but rack my brains as I might, I simply can't recall anyone matching that description. Perhaps I've forgotten? Do forgive my rudeness—where exactly did we meet?" Takanawatari appeared utterly at a loss for words. "Well... I... That is... It seems I can't recall either." "But personally," Hideko continued, "even this surname 'Takanawatari' you mention strikes me as entirely unfamiliar."

I sighed in utter relief. Hideko had passed this terrifying ordeal—terrifying not to her, perhaps, but to my own heart—with effortless grace. She was no maid as O-Ura had suspected, nor Furuyama O-Tori, nor a shape-shifting swindler. Here stood the genuine Matsutani Hideko, whom even Takanawatari Nagazo—the Ghost Tower’s former master—had never seen before. Her credentials were unimpeachable: having served as a secretary to American politicians and authored esteemed books—all confirming her status as a noblewoman of irreproachable virtue. O-Ura’s suspicions were groundless; even I, who had feared she might fail this trial at any moment, had been unforgivably rude to doubt her.

Though this recounts old matters, it is said that Takanawatari Nagazo had been a man raised alongside O-Natsu—the woman who murdered Okon—by the old woman Okon from childhood. Okon had intended for Natsuko and Nagazo to marry, but for reasons unknown, Natsuko began detesting Nagazo once she became old enough to understand such matters, refusing outright to wed him. Okon placated Natsuko in every way and ultimately named her sole heir, writing into her will that all property would go to Natsuko. Though Natsuko gratefully served Okon dutifully, her aversion to Nagazo remained unchanged. Enraged at being disinherited, Nagazo abandoned himself to debauchery before fleeing home to London, never to return. Okon so cherished Natsuko that even after Nagazo’s departure, she continued coaxing and deceiving her—finally resorting to gathering all her cash from banks and piling it before Natsuko: “This house’s wealth in cash alone is vast. If you become Nagazo’s wife, it will all be yours. If not, I shall rewrite my will to make him heir.” Crude as this was, it aligned with Okon’s origins as a maid risen to prominence. Natsuko wept and apologized profusely at losing her inheritance but still refused to marry Nagazo. Left with no choice, Okon resolved to rewrite her will and sent for a lawyer from London. On the very night before the lawyer’s arrival at twelve o’clock, Okon was murdered. Investigation revealed overwhelming evidence pointing to O-Natsu as the culprit. Though she vehemently denied guilt, she was convicted as previously recorded and died in prison while serving life imprisonment. Nagazo too had been investigated but was cleared at once—he had been in London that night, stood to gain nothing from Okon’s death, and in fact needed her alive until the next day. Thus Okon’s estate passed to the convicted O-Natsu, but per a codicil stating that upon Natsuko’s death without issue, it would revert to Nagazo—which it did when she died in prison.

This was all I knew of Nagazo’s history, but such matters hardly mattered now—let us return to the main narrative. Though O-Ura’s disappointment at Takanawatari and Hideko being complete strangers made for quite the spectacle, she proved her cunning by deftly smoothing over the situation with feigned diplomacy. “Why, just look at you two!” she addressed Hideko brightly. “Since Mr. Takanawatari here was the tower’s former owner who knows all its secrets, you’re bound to have much to discuss! Why not shake hands and become acquainted like old friends? Come now—Mr. Takanawatari, Miss Hideko—do grant me this favor! Really, Uncle,” she turned imploringly to Marube Asao, “if you don’t persuade them, I’ll be mortified!” Takanawatari obligingly extended his hand. Hideko reluctantly reached out hers, but the moment their fingers brushed, she recoiled as if touching a venomous serpent. Her serene face contorted with indescribable revulsion as she snatched back her hand and clung to her uncle’s shoulder like a collapsing doll. “Father,” she whispered through stifled tears, “I haven’t the strength to stand any longer.” She buried her face against his chest, her silent sobs unmistakable—whether from nerves frayed by the night’s tensions or some deeper anguish remained unclear. Her uncle began leading her away with pained concern when suddenly Takanawatari cried out in a voice that seemed to pierce the heavens: “Oh God!” His eyes—sharp as X-rays once more—fixed upon Hideko’s left glove adorned with what had once been *his* pearls.

**Chapter 25: Is This the Ghost?** Though I was glad Hideko's confrontation with Nagazo had ended in her victory, an uneasy premonition lingered within me—as if this brief calm were but the precursor to a greater tempest. Could some seed of calamity still remain? Would another unpleasant incident soon arise? Such foreboding would not leave me—a sensation akin to fearing this lull might herald a violent storm.

This anxiety proved true—proved true indeed, so true it verged on excess. Readers who reach later chapters will surely marvel at how alarmingly accurate it was—but that comes much later.

The night passed without incident. The guests began departing around two o'clock after offering polite remarks—"What a splendid gathering" and "We've enjoyed ourselves thoroughly"—while I too soon retired to bed.

My bedroom was on the fourth floor of the tower where Okon had been murdered—the room directly below the clock chamber. Though not to my own taste, I had taken this room at Hideko’s suggestion, replacing the furnishings as much as possible to fashion it into something resembling a gentleman’s quarters. It was no longer as gloomy or unsettling as when I first saw it. Had I been in a calm state of mind, I might have slept soundly, but that night, tranquility eluded me, and deep sleep proved impossible. I hovered in the borderland between dream and reality for perhaps thirty minutes before a faint sound roused me. The candle by my pillow had long since extinguished itself, leaving me unable to discern the source of the noise—until I fixed my gaze into the darkness and perceived a shadowy figure gliding slowly along the wall. *Ah—could this be the tower’s ghost?* I thought, my blood running cold.

As a man educated to disbelieve in ghosts, I attributed it to my eyes playing tricks, but just to be sure, I fumbled for a match and struck it. Though visibility was poor, nothing seemed amiss—yet as the match began to die, I thought I glimpsed something resembling a human hand emerging from between the wall panels near the center. Of course, in dim light, stumps often resemble heads and discarded robes look like corpses—come morning, it would surely prove trivial. Reassured, I lay back down. Not ten minutes passed before another sound came—this time unmistakable: a rustling scrape against the wall, as though something moved there.

Let me briefly describe this room’s layout. Located midway up the tower, its four sides were entirely surrounded by corridors to prevent passersby from entering—a design unique to this structure. However, one side had been repurposed at some point into a storage area for miscellaneous tools used in the room. Given this configuration, I could not determine whether the earlier noise originated inside or outside the walls. I struck another match and lit a fresh candle—only to hear it again. No—or rather, I *felt* I heard it: a sigh-like, loathsome sound. Truly dreadful—in such circumstances, a sigh chilled more than a sob. Could it be Okon’s ghost lamenting that her room had been usurped? Impossible.

I circled every corner of the three partitioned spaces—bedchamber, study, and parlor—with candle in hand, yet found nothing amiss within the room. I knocked on the wall panels too; though aged, they showed no irregularities. *Then it must be outside*—somewhere in the corridor. But if the cause lay beyond these walls, there was no need to investigate further. Returning to my bed, I placed the hand candle on the bedside table and tried to lie back down—only to freeze in horror. Two or three drops of blood had fallen onto my pristine white pillow. This blood must have dripped within mere minutes of my waking. Looking closer, I found similar stains on the bedding—shaped like raindrops. I doubted my eyes again, yet no matter how I scrutinized them, they remained unmistakably blood. Where had it come from? The ceiling? The panels? The closet? The ceiling connected to the clock chamber above—a space someone could crawl through—but no blood seeped through from below. Perhaps it had spurted from between the panels? Even so, I could not bring myself to sleep where blood had fallen. Could Torai Fujin’s lemur-like animal have caught a mouse within the walls? Yet I had never heard such creatures sigh.

**Chapter 26: Growing More Inscrutable** I wiped away the blood that had fallen in several drops like raindrops with my handkerchief, but I could not muster the courage to lie back down on that bed. Though I scolded myself for such cowardice—how utterly mortifying—I reconsidered: even if I forced myself to lie down, I probably wouldn’t be able to sleep anyway. In the end, I simply got up.

I stepped into the hallway and opened a window to find dawn already breaking. I wanted to thoroughly investigate whose blood it was—whether Okon’s ghost had truly manifested—but in such a nervous state, any investigation would only deceive my own mind. Though still early, I decided to go outside, intending to exercise fully before returning. Descending the stairs as quietly as possible, I entered the garden and strolled from there to the moat’s edge. Along the bank stood a boathouse containing a new rowboat that no one had yet used. Thinking it might be amusing to launch it myself in an impromptu ceremony, I strained alone to pull it down. Disregarding the morning wind’s chill, I took up the oars and rowed around the moat. After perhaps an hour or more had passed—my body now slick with sweat and my spirits refreshed enough to forget the ghost—I tied up the boat and climbed the embankment. There before me stood the grave of that murderess O-Natsu, with someone paying respects before it.

Without needing to wonder who it was—her graceful figure and shadow-gray kimono made it unmistakable: Hideko. Why she visited this grave had long been one of my mysteries, but her coming here before anyone else awoke suggested she wished to keep these visits secret. Resolving to pretend ignorance, I began to leave—when suddenly a man emerged from behind the tombstone: Takanawatari Nagazo, who had failed to expose her last night. Hideko startled and rose to her feet; Nagazo removed his hat and bowed. She tried to retreat toward the house, but he blocked her path. The situation grew volatile—I nearly rushed out to protect her, but held back. Nagazo extended his hand as if for a handshake; Hideko crossed her arms behind her back in refusal. Undeterred, he pressed forward. She thrust her right hand out to push him away. He regained his footing and persisted, still reaching for her left hand hidden behind her. Most women would have screamed for help, but Hideko struggled silently to escape. No longer could I watch passively—I dashed over and shoved Nagazo sideways with such force that even I was startled; he staggered as though about to collapse.

I waited for him to regain his footing and gripped his hand with crushing force. Hideko looked at me with genuine gratitude and said, “Though this gentleman and I only met last night, it is truly rude of him to act this way toward an unescorted woman.” Nagazo also turned to me and said, “It’s not that I’m being rude, but there’s something I can’t quite grasp and wish to ascertain.” “That is precisely what constitutes rudeness,” I declared. “Apologize to this young lady before my eyes.” “I will apologize to you,” he replied, “but as for this young lady—not unless I have thoroughly ascertained and dispelled my doubts.” “If you don’t apologize, I’ll be your opponent,” I said, tightening my grip on his hand even further. Though he appeared somewhat indignant, a man of his gentle disposition stood no chance against my strength from the outset. Even a courageous man would not have remained silent under such circumstances, but he proved unexpectedly timid. “Very well—if you insist to this extent, I shall apologize! I shall apologize!” He turned to Hideko and said, “I sincerely apologize for my discourtesy. I beg you to let this matter rest here and now,” then left looking thoroughly chastened.

I took Hideko’s hand and tried to console her as I led her back toward the house. Had it been my uncle instead of me, she would have surely clung to him weeping and buried her face in his chest as she had the previous night—her expression now verging on tears. Yet she could not bring herself to cling to me, merely hanging her head as I guided her by the hand. My heart ached unbearably; pity surged through my chest until, almost unconsciously, I stroked her back with one hand and began, “Miss Hideko—you cannot face such enemies alone. Let me protect you. Though I don’t know the full circumstances, I fear you’ll find only loneliness ahead if left to yourself. Grant me at least the right to protect you—” But Hideko recoiled from me, saying, “You too speak like Mr. Gonda. I am grateful for your protection, but I cannot make such a promise.” Truly, I had come to want to utter the very words Gonda had spoken to her—though I had mocked him inwardly, a single night’s passing had made me take his place. No wonder Hideko could never accept this. “No—I won’t speak of such things now—but do you find my arrival here today... welcome?” “Oh, I do! Had you not come, my life might have ended right here.” “Then even without any promise from you, I shall become your shadow and protect you hereafter.” “But I cannot ask this of you,” said Hideko, her eyes brimming with tears even as she spoke. “I must fulfill this sacred mission myself. Yes—I may fail and meet some unspeakable end in this world, but I’ve sworn it in my heart.” What this “sacred mission” entailed grew ever more inscrutable. Had O-Natsu entrusted her with some final request while alive? Was this why she visited the grave so often? Regardless, I could no longer stand idly by.

**Chapter 27: Invisible Danger** If one were to judge impartially, there would surely be much about Hideko’s circumstances to arouse suspicion—her so-called “sacred mission” remained unexplained, her visits to O-Natsu’s grave defied understanding, and Takanawatari Nagazo’s intense suspicions toward her were equally inscrutable. Yet I harbored no doubts whatsoever. Foremost, Hideko’s beautiful face had etched itself deeply into my eyes. She was no woman with a dark heart that invited suspicion. True, she likely carried some secret mission as she claimed—but it assuredly bore no malicious intent. Second, I deeply trusted Hideko’s words from before: “You’ll understand when the time comes.” There was no need to impatiently doubt what would reveal itself naturally.

Thinking thus, I could only pity her—how pitiable it was that a woman should strive for some secret mission, resolved to face “whatever calamity might end her life.” Were she someone I could save, I would gladly do so. Yet knowing nothing of her circumstances, and with her being neither my wife nor kin, I could not intervene deeply. While I might assist in visible dangers like today’s incident, judging by her demeanor, unseen perils likely far outnumbered those apparent.

While lost in these thoughts, I escorted Hideko into the house. After breakfast and another round of exercise, I ascended to the tower’s fourth floor to finally investigate traces of last night’s—or rather, this morning’s—ghostly apparition. Yet Hideko had arrived before me, pensively pacing the corridor. When I asked, “Is something wrong?” she did not answer but instead gestured with her eyes, leading me into my room. After a pause, she continued in an altered tone: “You made this room your parlor at my suggestion—” “Exactly so.” “Have you carried out the rest of the matters as I instructed?” “What other matters do you mean?” “In this room, you found the Marube family’s incantations and diagrams, didn’t you?” “Yes, I found them,” I replied, briefly describing how I had discovered them. Hideko asked, “And have you memorized those incantations?” “No, I haven’t memorized them verbatim, but the phrases aren’t long—I mostly recall them. They go something like… *‘A hundred vessels of luminous pearls, royal blessings bestowed, wicked monks steal away, night waters where dragons weep…’*” “Well, it’s commendable that you’ve memorized that much—but have you deciphered their meaning?” “I can’t make sense of it at all. The latter phrases are likely meaningless—perhaps the ancestor of this house who created those incantations was somewhat unhinged.” “You’re mistaken to think that way. Please consider it earnestly—I’ve been studying the incantations and diagrams nearly every day, but my efforts alone have fallen short. With your erudition—” “I may pride myself on physical strength, but my scholarly knowledge is far from extensive. Yet why do you press me with such urgency?” “A grave matter has occurred. Yesterday afternoon, I returned here to cross-reference the tower’s mechanisms with those diagrams and incantations. I wrote only my confirmed findings in a notebook and hid it in a secret cavity within this corridor’s outer wall. When I came back just now to verify something further, the notebook was gone. Should a villain interpret those incantations using it, catastrophe will follow. You or I *must* decipher them before they do—otherwise, it will spell irreversible ruin for you, Father… and myself.” “Is the one who stole the notebook a villain?” “I don’t know who it could be, but anyone who would steal another’s notebook must be a villain—especially one intent on deciphering those incantations to plot some gain.” “Even if they stole it, they could never interpret it—they’re incantations so obscure that even you, who ponder them daily, haven’t unraveled their meaning.” “Indeed, I believe even the most cunning villain couldn’t fully grasp them without seeing both the original text and diagrams. But if they see my notebook, they’ll realize how painstakingly I’ve worked—and that such efforts must hold value worth pursuing. At least that much would become clear.”

I still couldn’t fully grasp Hideko’s insistence. I doubted those incantations contained any decipherable meaning worth interpreting—even if someone did parse them, they’d hardly benefit this household. Let others try; no real harm could come of it. Such were my thoughts when Hideko pressed, “I truly don’t know who stole it. Was there anything unusual last night—?” “No, nothing in particu—” I began, then abruptly recalled. “Wait—there was something significant!” After I recounted the ghostly episode in full, Hideko grasped it immediately. “That ghost was a thief,” she declared. “The sighs and wall-touching were meant to intimidate you into abandoning this room so they could return at their leisure. The blood must have come from an injury the thief sustained somehow.”

Of course—it must be so. There was no room for doubt. “No—your perceptiveness never ceases to impress me.” “It’s not perceptiveness but diligence—diligence born of concern—that leads me to such conclusions. But Mr. Marube, if you vacate this room even once, that ghost will surely return night after night to study the tower using my notebook. You must not leave this chamber unguarded.” “But wouldn’t feigning fear to lure them out and capture them be a viable strategy?” “No—that would be perilously dangerous.” “If we allow that phantom to ascend this tower even one more night,” she said, pausing thoughtfully, “there’s no telling what calamity might follow. If you find it disagreeable, you may sleep in the lower room. For now, I shall take it upon myself to occupy this chamber.” Her resolve and courage were truly admirable. I answered firmly: “Your concern is unwarranted. From tonight onward, I shall keep vigil here without fail, ensuring none ascend this tower even by daylight.” Yet later, upon calmer reflection, I doubted this crumbling tower held anything valuable enough to attract thieves.

**Chapter 28: What Lies Within**

Thieves masquerading as ghosts were not entirely unprecedented—I had heard tales of such things—but this was my first actual encounter. Yet who could this thief be? Many guests had stayed at this house last night—all ostensibly gentlemen and noble ladies, though some might lack propriety—but none seemed the sort to commit theft. Could the thief have come from outside? Yet there was no trace of intrusion—an utterly perplexing matter. I pressed Hideko again: “Do you have any suspicions at all?” Her demeanor suggested she privately suspected someone, but she voiced nothing, repeating only: “I have no inkling whatsoever.”

After this, as I had promised Hideko, I resolved not to allow anyone up the tower and endeavored to stay in this room as much as possible, acting as its guardian. Thanks to this, no ghostly figures appeared again.

However, there were far more unpleasant and terrifying things than ghostly apparitions. I shall now recount them in sequence.

That evening, I saw an unfamiliar gentleman enter the house. Upon inquiring with a servant, I learned he was a local doctor. Indeed, I later became somewhat acquainted with him—a man purely devoted to his profession. When I asked why he had been summoned, it was because Madam Torai—Hideko’s attendant—had fallen ill. Upon hearing this, I realized Madam Torai had indeed been absent from the luncheon gathering. When dinnertime arrived, Madam Torai appeared, though her complexion seemed pallid. I approached her and asked, “I heard you were unwell—how are you feeling?” She regarded me with mild suspicion. “Who said I was ill?” “But didn’t the village doctor come earlier?” “Well, since you’ve found out,” she replied awkwardly, “I’ve kept it hidden from everyone out of embarrassment—it’s not an illness but an injury. That lemur scratched my hand quite badly.” “To be injured by one’s own pet—how careless of me at my age.” “But since it’s merely a senseless creature,” I countered, “being scratched is hardly shameful. How severe *is* the injury?” “Nothing grave,” she said, “but the pain is intense.” Indeed, her right hand lay bandaged.

For several days thereafter, Madam Konsai remained secluded in her room—her condition appearing to worsen, purportedly due to poisoning from the lemur’s claws. As she was a guest in this house after all, I could not feign ignorance indefinitely. One day, I visited her quarters. Though visibly pleased, she lacked the strength to sit up. Extending her uninjured hand from beneath the bedding, she implored me: “How kind of you to come. I have an earnest request—as a plea from one who is ill—might you hear me out?” The nature of her request—being addressed so earnestly despite my unannounced visit—took me aback. Moreover, ever since discovering her involvement in that forged telegram, I had harbored profound distaste for this woman. Yet I could not coldly refuse a plea from a bedridden invalid. “Very well—I shall hear whatever you wish to ask.” “Then I shall explain. Over there, on that hanging garment of mine, there is a pocket containing a crucial item. I ask that you take hold of the pocket from the back without peering inside and tear it off for me.” What a bizarre request—to tear off either the item inside the pocket or the pocket itself. I had never heard of such a thing before.

Though I found the task distasteful, having given my word as a man, I couldn’t back down. I stood, retrieved the garment hanging on the wall, and as instructed, gripped the pocket from its reverse side and tore it free. When I brought it to Madam’s bedside, she pointed again to the writing box by her pillow and said, “Inside you’ll find a small box. Place the pocket within it, seal it, address it as I direct, and kindly have it mailed as a parcel.” “This was becoming an increasingly troublesome request,” I thought, “but having no choice, I complied.” “And the address?” “Very well, I shall tell you,” she said, directing me to inscribe: *“To Mr. Anakawa Jinzou, proprietor of the Insect Farm, vicinity of Payton City, Hunt County.”* Thinking it might prove useful later, I committed the name to memory—though “Insect Farm” struck me as an unusual designation for a facility breeding insects. Madam Konsai added, “Please dispatch this discreetly and speak of it to no one.” Though I found it utterly detestable to become entangled in this lady’s secret, I reluctantly obeyed her instructions and personally entrusted the item to the postal service. Yet what could lie within that pocket? No matter how I tried not to suspect, it remained undeniably suspicious.

After sending off the postal parcel and returning home, I encountered that doctor again in the hallway. I bowed and said, “Doctor, the poison from that lemur is truly dreadful, isn’t it?” The doctor wore an uncomprehending expression. “Eh? A lemur?” “You’re the one treating Madam Torai’s injury.” “Ah, that? That was caused by an old nail scratch. Injuries from rusted metal can often leave severe complications.” I merely replied, “Is that so?” and parted ways, but my mind was deeply unsettled. If her injury truly came from a rusty nail or similar object, why would Madam Torai claim it was caused by a lemur? Could it be that she was the one who dripped blood onto my bedding that previous night? If someone had reached through the paneled partition, getting scratched by an old nail would be entirely plausible. Wait—wait—does that mean the item inside that hidden pouch was none other than Hideko’s stolen notebook? Even if I doubted it now, it might already be too late—no, no, not necessarily too late. If needed, I could always visit that Insect Farm Anakawa’s residence.

**Chapter 29: The Blade Within the Wall** Had a terrible incident not occurred the very next day, I would have surely gone to the Insect Farm to ascertain what manner of man this Anakawa Jinzou was. If even the slightest suspicion arose, I resolved to first inform Hideko and then investigate whether the parcel Madam Konsai had sent to this Jinzou was indeed her stolen notebook. Yet before visiting the Insect Farm, I wished to verify one critical point: whether the lemur’s claws actually contained poison. If they did—and if a scratch from them could inflict harm akin to that of a rusted nail—then my suspicions toward Madam Konsai would weaken considerably.

My study lacked the reference materials needed to investigate such matters, but the Marube family’s study surely contained them. However, due to the hasty relocation, the study remained disorganized—though the room itself was settled, with bookcases already haphazardly piled inside. This room had originally been built by a past head of the household for his private quarters and was rumored to retain various secret structures within. Had it not been for these rumors, my uncle would have claimed it as his own residence; but rejecting chambers with hidden mechanisms, he ultimately designated it as the study instead. Though partitioned into three sections—ill-suited for a study—its construction remained impressively robust.

As I attempted to enter the room, voices echoed from within. Upon opening the door, the words "There's no need to doubt my intentions—I am no threat" reached my ears just as I glimpsed someone fleeing through a window into the garden. Suspicious, I stepped inside to find Miss Ura leaning against the windowsill. I asked, "Oh, Miss Ura—why are you here?" She replied, "I wished to see you. I assumed you'd likely be in this room studying." "But how did you manage to enter a locked room?" "I came here from Torisu-an Hermitage through the garden and entered through this window." Indeed, one could enter through the window. "Who were you speaking with here just now?" "No one was talking at all. Ah, I see—you must have heard me talking to myself." "No—I thought I caught a glimpse of someone leaving." O-Ura avoided answering directly and instead deflected, saying, "You're well aware I've talked to myself when thinking things through since childhood, aren't you?" Since it wasn't worth pressing further, I refrained from arguing.

“But as for the matter you came to see me about—” “I’ve come to sincerely apologize,” said O-Ura, her voice trembling with dejection. “Please don’t look so stern—I beg you to hear me out with some compassion.” She led me to a corner and gestured for me to sit, then settled herself beside me. Clasping both my hands tightly, she pleaded, “Forgive me, Michi-san—please return to our old promise.” “Huh? The old promise…?” “Were we not raised under the promise that you and I would become husband and wife?” As I, startled, was about to refuse outright with a single word, she restrained me, saying, “Please do not dismiss me yet—hear me out first.” “Though I declared I didn’t love you at all and annulled our engagement before leaving for abroad, I only said such things out of jealousy—believing you had grown attached to Matsutani Hideko, whose origins remain unknown. But while abroad, I longed for you more each day, and now I cannot bear this regret. When I was this family’s adopted daughter, wherever I went, people made a great fuss over me—yet now, no one pays me any heed. It’s truly unbearable. I know I’ve been selfish and displeasing until now, but from this moment on, I’ll change my heart and think only of you. So please—revoke that annulment. Won’t you, Michi-san?” She peered into my face, but I was too stunned by her audacity to reply easily. “Michi-san—can’t you answer me?” “I can give you an answer, but not the one you hope for.” O-Ura resentfully pleaded, “Am I truly such a detestable woman that you would loathe me this much? Hmm? Even Mr. Takanawatari insists there’s no one but me and keeps buzzing about with marriage proposals.” “As for that suitor, it must be you. You are a splendid beauty—anyone whose heart isn’t inclined elsewhere would surely be drawn to you.” O-Ura abruptly rose in anger. “I see! If your heart weren’t already inclined elsewhere, you might consider it—but you’re in love with Matsutani Hideko, so you refuse to heed my words. That’s what you’re saying, isn’t it?” “It’s not exactly like that—but if you choose to interpret it that way, I can’t say it’s entirely wrong.” O-Ura shouted in a piercing voice, “Ugh—how infuriating! That bewitching beauty has stolen away my husband!” Tearing at her own body as if clawing through madness, she staggered toward the window, leaped outside, and fled across the garden toward the distant moat—likely feigning a suicidal plunge to bait me into chasing her. But having endured her farces time and again, I refused to bite. Satisfied at having rid myself of the nuisance, I entered the adjacent room instead. Winding through scattered bookcases, I began inspecting those along the wall—but as I sidled past one shelf, a blade shot diagonally from within the wall itself, stabbing my flank from behind. Though my mind raced to comprehend, searing pain erupted instantly. I collapsed. The wound itself seemed shallow, yet its edges burned like fire. Stranger still: I could not scream for help; my hands refused to staunch the bleeding; my limbs—no, my entire body—lay paralyzed. Motionless on the floor, I could not even twitch a finger.

Chapter 30: Such... Such... Why had I been stabbed—and by whom? This was no trivial matter. Yet stranger still was how this small wound burned with such disproportionate agony, how its searing pain had left my entire body paralyzed. Never had I imagined a human frame could grow so numb. My voice failed me entirely. Even my eyelids stiffened—when I strained to open them, they slackened like leaden curtains, leaving me to peer through a thread-thin fissure at the blurred light beyond.

I once read in a book that tribesmen in a certain Indian village would extract juice from a peculiar plant’s leaves to produce a paralyzing poison. If applied to a blade and used to stab someone, the wound would burn like fire, and the victim’s entire body would go numb. If even half a gram were mixed into water and ingested, death would follow with almost no trace left behind. Until a few years ago, even doctors could not detect this poison during autopsies of its victims. The tribesmen reportedly called this plant “devil’s tongue”—an unsettling name indeed. Could this very poison have been smeared on the blade that stabbed me? Otherwise, the searing pain of my wound and this total bodily paralysis defy explanation. Whoever wields such a dangerous toxin in these parts cannot be allowed to roam unchecked.

Yet I could still hear, and my mind remained fully lucid. As I prayed fervently for someone to come and rescue me, two figures entered the adjacent room from the garden—O-Ura and Hideko—as their voices soon revealed what had brought them there: “He was indeed here… but where has he gone?” “You mentioned wanting to speak with me in front of Mr. Michikuro,” said Hideko coldly,“but since he isn’t present… I suppose that conversation cannot take place.” She turned sharply toward the door. “No—wait!” interjected O-Ura.“Even if he isn’t here… let us settle this now.” “I don’t know what you mean… but make your words brief.”

The air between them bristled with unspoken hostility. O-Ura said, “Very well—I’ll be brief. You are aware that Michi-san and I were once betrothed.” “By ‘Michi-san,’ do you mean Michikurou-san? If so, then yes—I have heard of that.” “You’re the one who tore us apart—” “You speak such unfounded words!” “Yes—by trying to become Michi-san’s wife yourself and seducing him, you’ve effectively severed our bond!” “I have never harbored such intentions as desiring to become Michikurou-san’s wife. To accuse me of beguiling him is an outrageous suspicion.”

“If that’s the case,” pressed O-Ura, “will you stand before Michi-san and declare outright: ‘Mr. Marube—I can never become your wife’?” “I will declare it,” Hideko replied evenly, “but since that gentleman has never mentioned making me his wife, would it not seem absurd for me to volunteer such words unprompted?” “The absurdity lies only in volunteering,” O-Ura countered. “Come with me before him. When I ask ‘Do you intend to wed this woman someday?’, you need only refuse him then—regardless of his answer.” “Though your demand reeks of criminal interrogation—something I’d ordinarily reject—I’ll humor this charade out of pity for your baseless jealousy.” “Then you must stand with me,” O-Ura pressed further, “and urge him: ‘Return to our original marital promise.’” Hideko answered with a faint smile. O-Ura’s voice sharpened: “That alone won’t suffice. You know I was once this household’s adopted daughter.” “I’ve heard as much.” “Since you took that position after my expulsion, you must relinquish it.” “Hmm…” “I cannot do that. No.” O-Ura’s tone turned glacial. “Even if you refuse, your tainted lineage makes you unworthy. Your presence defiles this house.” “Whether it becomes defiled,” Hideko retorted, “is for Father to judge—not you.” “Uncle cannot judge!” O-Ura snapped. “He’s blinded by your resemblance to his dead wife!” “Whether I resemble her or not grants you no right—”

“Yes, there is! Your face matters not—it’s your background that—” “Without even knowing my background, you still insist I am Furuyama O-Tori, a former servant of this household? Perhaps it would be best to have Mr. Takanawatari and his ilk investigate me thoroughly.” O-Ura declared, “Mr. Takanawatari was in this house alongside maids like Furuyama O-Tori and the foster daughter Wata Natsuko until Wata Okon’s murder—yet he failed to expose you. But he harbors even graver suspicions about you now! He claims that if we remove that grotesque glove concealing your left hand, the truth will be laid bare. Well, *I’ll* expose you myself!” With that—as I deduced—she lunged abruptly for Hideko’s left hand, seized her wrist, and tried to wrench off the glove. Hideko protested, “You’re being too rough!” but O-Ura snapped, “Roughness? This is nothing!” The sound of floorboards creaking under frantic footsteps suggested they had begun grappling. I burned with hatred for O-Ura—I yearned to rise and strike her dead—but my paralyzed body refused even a twitch. The scuffle ended quickly; having taken Hideko by surprise, O-Ura seemed victorious. “I’ve torn it off!” she crowed triumphantly. “Your secret lies in this hand!”—doubtless referring to Hideko’s now-bare left hand. Whatever horror it revealed left O-Ura aghast. “Ghastly… utterly ghastly! Such a… such a—” Her voice choked into silence.

**Chapter 31: A Point of No Return, Even in Regret**

What had been concealed beneath Matsutani Hideko’s left glove? What manner of secret had O-Ura glimpsed? I could scarcely endure the swelling unease.

After a moment, O-Ura spoke in a tone of total triumph: “Now that I’ve seen this secret, Miss Hideko, you’re as good as a corpse. You can’t resist me—no, you can’t even remain in this house as its adopted daughter! Soon enough, I’ll leisurely tell Uncle and Michi-san this secret and shock them both!” she spat venomously. Hideko cried desperately, “Yes—I’ll ensure you *can’t* speak of it!” and began darting frantically about the room. To what end? To bar every last door and exit, preventing O-Ura from leaving. The clatter of locks being fastened and bolts sliding echoed throughout. Soon Hideko declared, “There! Now you cannot escape even if you try.” “It’s simply a matter of leaving together when you go out.” “I won’t let you out with me.” “Now that this secret has been seen, you must swear never to divulge it.” “Can such a vow be made? I cannot keep silent!” In a voice of terrifying fervor, Hideko declared, “Even if you do not speak of it, I myself will inform everyone once I have fulfilled my sacred mission. Until then, I will silence your mouth by any means necessary. Now—swear exactly as I instruct you! If you refuse to swear this oath, no matter how you try to break it later, you cannot. Break it, and dreadful misfortune will plague you for the rest of your life!”

Whatever Hideko was doing, O-Ura spoke with a somewhat fearful expression: “Please open the door. Let me out.” “I’ll release you only after you swear the oath. Will you swear it or not? If you refuse now, I’ll ensure you suffer a fate beyond redemption—one you’ll regret for all eternity, yet never undo.” “A fate beyond redemption for all eternity”—what manner of calamity did she intend to inflict? It sounded almost like a death threat. If only my body were free! I writhed inwardly with frustration, yet it was futile. A paper-thin barrier separated me from them, yet I could not tear through it—how pitiful. O-Ura shouted, “Hand over that key!” and lunged at Hideko again. The clamor of their struggle resumed. Who would prevail? Both seemed desperate. Soon, one slipped—a cry of “Ah!”—and collapsed onto the floor. The voice was unmistakably O-Ura’s.

At this moment, I writhed in agony and managed to rise halfway up. I tried to step forward, but my legs held no strength at all—I collapsed back down with a thud. As I fell, a groan of “Ugh…” escaped my lips for the first time before my consciousness faded away completely. For a fleeting moment, I felt myself and the world grow infinitely distant—as though my soul had left my body in death. But at my groan, it seemed Hideko rushed over at once. Her startled voice reached me faintly: “Mr. Marube! Mr. Marube! Oh—your flank has been stabbed! This blood… How dreadful! Who has done this to you?”

Whether the numbness in my body had slightly subsided or not, this voice allowed me to open my eyes and faintly speak. “Oh—Miss Hideko?” I said, all the while pretending not to scrutinize her left hand for whatever secret it held. Yet she skillfully concealed her fingertips with a handkerchief, leaving nothing visible. Given how guarded she remained even in this moment of vulnerability, it was no wonder she had fought so desperately when O-Ura saw it. The next words from my mouth were a question: “What happened to O-Ura?” As if suddenly remembering, Hideko replied, “Oh—Miss Ura is surely the one who ought to tend to you, not I.” She then turned toward the room where they had quarreled earlier. “Miss Ura! Miss Ura! Can you not hear Mr. Marube calling for you? This is urgent—please come here at once! Miss Ura—Mr. Marube is summoning you!” Yet O-Ura gave no reply—not even a rustle of movement. Hideko frowned. “Oh—do you disdain approaching me? This is no time for such airs.” Still, there was no response from O-Ura. Hideko pleaded, “The fight earlier was my fault—*please*, Miss Ura! Come here! I can’t manage this alone! As for my secret—do with it as you please now! Miss Ura! Miss Ura! If you so despise approaching me—very well! I’ll give you this key. Use it to unlock the door and quickly fetch someone!” She hurled the key into the next room. Yet O-Ura did not respond. Flustered, Hideko fretted, “This is truly impossible! If we leave Mr. Marube like this, the bleeding may worsen—who knows what could happen! We must move him to a bed at once and properly tend to his wound! But with my strength alone, I cannot carry you there.” At a loss, she glanced around the room and said, “Then I shall go summon someone myself.” Taking an animal pelt draped over a nearby table, she wrapped it into a pillow and gently repositioned my body. Then she rose to leave—her skillful manner rivaling that of a professional nurse.

From where I lay propped up, I had a direct view of the next room’s exit. As I watched Hideko’s movements, she picked up the key she had thrown earlier, glanced around the room, and remarked dismissively, “How childish of Miss Ura to hide herself away in such a situation.” With that key, she unlocked the door and left. Though I had no desire for O-Ura to come tend to me afterward, I kept staring at the next room, half-expecting her to appear—yet she never came. Nor did she attempt to leave through the exit Hideko had left open. Just as I began to suspect Hideko was scheming some new twist befitting her warped nature, she returned with two servants and knelt beside me, saying, “Oh—has Miss Ura still not come to your side even after I left?” Before allowing the servants to touch me, I ordered them to search the next room and drag O-Ura out. They scoured every corner—probing every shadow large enough to conceal a person—but found no trace of her. She had vanished utterly, as though evaporated into thin air. *This* was what it meant to disappear without a clue—or perhaps it was the “point of no return” Hideko had threatened. Had she somehow obliterated O-Ura’s body? Yet there had been no time for such an act.

Chapter 32: The Professional Assassin I was immediately carried away from this room by two servants.

Upon hearing of my injury, my uncle and a crowd of people soon rushed over. Though my uncle suggested laying me in the nearest bedroom for the time being, I insisted on being taken to my own bedroom on the tower’s fourth floor. Though inconvenient for an injured man to be on the fourth floor, I had previously promised Hideko that I would sleep there without fail, and I intended to keep that promise. Moreover, by staying on the fourth floor, I thought some mysterious—or rather intriguing—event might occur.

Before long, I was carried up to the tower’s fourth floor. Yet what lingered uneasily in my mind was the matter of O-Ura’s disappearance. No matter how I reasoned, she could not have left that room—she must have vanished within it. But a person cannot simply be snuffed out like a lamp’s flame. Perhaps she had somehow slipped out and returned to Torisu-an Cottage. Thinking it prudent to have someone check Torisu-an, I asked Uncle to arrange it. At first, Uncle said, “There’s no need for O-Ura to come here,” but then—perhaps reconsidering—he added,

“Very well—I’ll instruct the messenger sent to fetch the doctor to stop by Torisu-an Cottage on their return,” he said, then descended downstairs. After about thirty minutes, the messenger returned with news that O-Ura had still not returned to Torisu-an Cottage either. I pondered it deeply—it was truly bizarre. How had she vanished? I couldn’t begin to imagine. Still, she might reappear by tomorrow. Not that I cared if she didn’t—in fact, it might be a blessing if that insolent woman never showed her face again. But if she did return, I would finally learn how she had managed to vanish from that room. I had no desire to see her again—only to uncover the truth of her disappearance.

Yet upon closer consideration, my injury proved even more perplexing than O-Ura’s disappearance. At that moment, no one else had been in that room besides myself. Reflecting now, I might have heard a faint sound behind me before being stabbed—yet after the attack, not even the shadow of a fleeing figure could be seen. It felt as though a blade had emerged from the wall itself. But if a blade truly protruded from the wall, there ought to have been a hole large enough for it—and no such hole existed. Thus, had I been stabbed by the work of an invisible ghost? Though strange tales abound through the ages, never had I heard of one being wounded by an unseen entity. Given such inexplicable circumstances already at play, O-Ura’s vanishing body hardly warranted surprise.

Soon, my uncle returned upstairs with the doctor. According to the doctor’s diagnosis, my wound had been inflicted by an extremely sharp double-edged weapon thinner than a razor. When I asked where such a blade could be found, he explained that female assassins in places like Italy had occasionally used such tools in the past—their extreme sharpness allowed penetration with minimal force, though the resulting wound was so precise it bled little. Provided vital organs were avoided, he said, such injuries healed surprisingly quickly; with proper care, I could leave my bed within a week. All things considered, it was not as grave an injury as one might fear.

Though it wasn’t a grave injury, my wound burned as if aflame, and my entire body had lost all function—what manner of weapon could cause this? The doctor’s theory aligned with my own suspicions: the blade must have been coated with a poison concocted from the juices of an Indian plant called *Curare* and another called *Granil*. He continued, “This is the work of a professional assassin.” “Well, there’s no such thing as a ‘specialty’ for assassins—but regardless, only someone extensively trained in stabbing techniques could achieve this. When using thin blades as I mentioned earlier, there’s always a risk of failure. By coating the blade with this poison, even a botched strike renders the victim incapacitated and unable to give chase. That’s why such toxins are applied when failure seems likely—a cowardly assassin’s secret art, they say. But with assassins who know such secrets prowling these rooms, we cannot rest easy. Mr. Marube—you must have detectives from that field investigate this.” The final remark was delivered as advice to my uncle.

Following this advice, Uncle promptly sent a telegram to London the next day to request a detective. Two days later, Mori Mondo arrived in response—the same detective who had previously apprehended the culprit O-Natsu during Wata Okon’s murder at this estate. His thorough familiarity with the Ghost Tower’s grounds and floorplan made him an ideal choice. Yet even after his arrival, O-Ura remained missing; two full days and nights had now passed since her disappearance, escalating the situation beyond a mere oddity. Consequently, Mori Mondo began investigating both my assailant and O-Ura’s vanishing act in tandem. In his mind, he likely suspected some connection between these two incidents.

**Chapter Thirty-Three: The 1,000 Yen Reward**

Detective Mori, being a renowned veteran in his field, would undoubtedly investigate both my stabbing and O-Ura’s disappearance thoroughly. He had come to my bedroom only after extensively questioning Hideko downstairs. I had to answer every inquiry truthfully—but would such honesty cast suspicion upon her? How would the detective interpret the fierce altercation between Hideko and O-Ura before her disappearance, during which Hideko had declared she would make O-Ura “suffer a fate beyond redemption”? Of course, from what I knew, Hideko was not responsible for O-Ura’s vanishing: she had rushed to my side the moment O-Ura collapsed, and only afterward did O-Ura disappear. Moreover, Hideko’s subsequent behavior—persisting in the belief that O-Ura was merely hiding somewhere—made her innocence as clear to me as my own lack of involvement. But the detective would not see it so.

I was still deliberating how to frame the altercation between O-Ura and Hideko when the detective swiftly arrived at my bedside. Fortunately, he did not inquire about Hideko—he began questioning me solely about my stabbing. I answered truthfully, stating it had felt as though a blade emerged from the wall itself, and reiterated the doctor’s theory regarding the weapon and poison. Uncharacteristically approachable for his profession, he openly shared his thoughts: “I already visited the doctor’s residence en route and heard about the poison. But if you insist a blade materialized from the wall, that leaves us no leads. We must instead investigate from angles that *do* offer clues.” “What do you mean by ‘the angle with clues’?” The detective said, “The disappearance of Urahara O-Ura.” I said, “Do you have any leads on O-Ura’s disappearance?” “Well, it may not amount to a lead per se, but there is someone who quarreled with Miss Ura and even threatened to make her suffer a fate beyond redemption.” “Wh-who told you that?” “I heard it from the person herself—Miss Matsutani Hideko.”

“Did Hideko say such a thing?” The detective said, “Seeing how fervently you insist, you and Miss Hideko are not complete strangers. Given that Urahara O-Ura was your former fiancée, jealousy between the two women was only natural.” I opened my eyes wide from my sickbed and said, “Hideko is nothing to me—a complete stranger! While O-Ura may have harbored jealousy, if you investigate under the assumption that Hideko felt any such envy, you will surely fall into grave error!”

The detective chuckled slightly. “Ah—I’d forgotten! The doctor strictly forbade me from saying anything that might agitate you now.” With this deft remark, he extricated himself from the situation and departed. Later, I pondered deeply: it seemed Hideko had already confessed every detail of that altercation in her own words. Why would she divulge such things, unaware suspicion might fall upon her? Though I found it regrettable, I realized it stemmed from her pure heart—she believed so firmly in her own innocence that even if doubted, she felt no danger. No—fundamentally, hers was an utterly honest nature that would never tell lies, no matter the circumstance.

After a while, Hideko came upstairs. I wondered what had become of that left hand of hers and, without making it obvious, glanced over. It seemed the peculiar glove had been taken by O-Ura and vanished along with her, for she now wore a new one—different from ordinary gloves, covering her entire arm. Pretending not to notice such details, I said, “Miss Hideko—it seems you told Detective Mori about your quarrel with O-Ura.” “Yes,” she replied, “I was asked if I had any leads regarding Miss Ura’s disappearance, but since I knew nothing beyond that quarrel, I told him about it.” “Did you also tell him that you yourself are entrusted with a secret mission?” “No,” she answered firmly. “My secret mission has no connection whatsoever to Miss Ura, and it is not a matter to be disclosed to detectives or the like, so I did not speak of it.”

I felt somewhat relieved. To speak of a "secret mission" would inevitably invite the detective's suspicions regardless of its nature—it was vital she hadn't mentioned it.

Then my uncle also came up here, followed by the Konsai couple—who had long shown particular favor to O-Ura—renting his Torisu-an Cottage and arriving as well. Regarding this incident, my room had become the focal point of all activity. Soon, even Takanawatari Nagazo—whom I detested—arrived. While the Konsais were visiting me, Takanawatari turned to my uncle and said, “Mr. Marube—though it may be presumptuous—I have a request regarding Urahara O-Ura’s disappearance.” “If it’s your request, I’ll agree without even hearing it.” Takanawatari spoke with a face verging on tears: “I must confess from the very beginning—when I first encountered Mrs. Konsai and Miss Urahara during my travels abroad, I became enamored with Miss Urahara and subsequently proposed marriage to her on multiple occasions. However, just three days ago, she finally expressed her consent. No sooner had I rejoiced than she vanished. Please understand my sorrow.” This was startling news indeed. Had O-Ura already agreed to become Takanawatari’s wife even while lamenting to me about reviving our old engagement? No—this was hardly surprising. Breaking promises meant nothing to a woman of her nature. True, she had mentioned receiving proposals from Takanawatari—it now seemed she had been playing both him and me against each other. What a wretched woman.

Mrs. Konsai looked slightly startled. “Oh my, Mr. Takanawatari—did you propose to Miss Ura again that morning? After I’d advised you so strongly to be patient, saying it was too soon!” Takanawatari reddened but pressed on: “But it was not premature—the young lady’s consent is proof enough.” “Her disappearance after consenting proves it *was* too soon,” Mrs. Konsai countered sharply. “Could she not have regretted agreeing and hidden herself away?” Her words betrayed a venomous disdain for Takanawatari I hadn’t anticipated. Flustered, he turned to my uncle: “Given these circumstances, I must locate Miss Ura without delay. To that end, I wish to offer a thousand-yen reward through Detective Mori—with your permission.” “You needn’t ask,” Uncle replied tersely. “Then I shall remain here until this investigation concludes.” Mrs. Konsai pounced like a cat cornering prey: “Even if *you* stay, *we* will vacate Torisu-an Cottage shortly. We only rented it at Miss Ura’s insistence—with her gone, staying there revolts us. We return to London next week.” She leaned forward, eyes glinting. “So where, pray tell, will *you* lodge then?” Takanawatari stammered, “Well—that is—under the circumstances—” “You may stay here,” Uncle interjected, rescuing him from further humiliation. Takanawatari brightened like a parched man handed water. “Your generosity honors me!” Yet I clenched my jaw—inviting this viper into our home courted disaster. Hideko’s tightened grip on her chair arm told me she shared my dread.

**Chapter Thirty-Four: Where Is the Sack?** Takanawatari Nagazo appeared utterly infatuated with O-Ura, having finally staked a 1,000 yen reward for her discovery through the detective. He trailed after the investigator with near-frantic intensity, rarely returning to Torisu-an Cottage and mostly remaining at this house. That said, the Konsai couple—still occupying Torisu-an—occasionally visited to inquire after my health. My uncle Asao, for his part, did everything possible to accommodate both the detective and Takanawatari.

The detective seemed to have grown even more zealous due to the 1,000 yen reward, yet he had obtained not a single lead. Who was the assailant who stabbed me? For what purpose did O-Ura vanish? The mystery remained shrouded in utter darkness. If forced to name a clue, there was only one: a patch of grass on the moat’s embankment had been trampled into utter disarray. Takanawatari had discovered this, theorizing that O-Ura might have suffered some violence there. My uncle tentatively agreed, but Detective Mori did not. In my view, since O-Ura had disappeared from a tightly sealed room in mere moments, no ordinary investigation could unravel it. Detective Mori seemed to think this way, yet tragically—because she had been in the same room at the time—he cast suspicion upon Hideko, employing a tone that stopped just short of outright declaring she must be interrogated even in my presence. This was likely meant to provoke my reaction. I, however, defended Hideko each time, for I could not conceive of her being capable of snuffing out a human being like a candle.

With matters in this state, Detective Mori made no progress—yet with no other way to investigate, everyone simply gathered in my room, repeating how strange it all was. A week passed, and as the doctor had predicted, I became able to leave my bed and move about. In my own estimation, I felt fully recovered and capable of any exertion, but since the doctor insisted I must not yet strain myself, I cautiously refrained from venturing outdoors. Still, ascending and descending stairs posed no difficulty.

Now that I could move about again, I had my own task to attend to. O-Ura’s disappearance mattered little to me—I wanted to resolve the investigation I had initiated before being injured. This inquiry concerned whether wounds inflicted by the lemur’s scratches truly resembled those from old nails. Readers may recall that during my earlier attempt to investigate this by visiting the library and consulting books, a blade had protruded from the wall. Though such a minor matter seemed trivial compared to the grand mystery of O-Ura’s vanishing act, with no leads on the larger case, even small clues deserved attention. With this resolve, I first went to Madame Torai’s room. She lay emaciated, her condition so frail she might not survive the day. The doctor remained stationed there full-time, as did Hideko—and even the lemur, though it had been securely tied near a chest on Hideko’s orders, rendered incapable of scratching anyone again. According to the doctor, had Madame Torai’s fever not broken by that day, she would have been beyond saving; but since morning, her temperature had dropped, signaling a path toward recovery. At this news, even Hideko’s furrowed brow relaxed slightly.

As I left the room, Hideko followed me into the hallway and stopped me with a hushed question: “Forgive the odd inquiry, but... did Madame Torai recently ask you to take the sack hidden beneath her bedding?” I stiffened—she’d uncovered my secret. “How did you know?” “When I stepped out briefly to attend to Father,” she explained, “the sack vanished from her bedding. Since she lacks strength to move it herself, someone must have assisted her. Upon discreet inquiries, I learned you’d visited her room during my absence—ostensibly checking her condition.” “That’s true.” “Did you look inside?” “No.” “My stolen notebook must be there.” Her certainty mirrored my suspicions. Feigning ignorance, I probed: “So you faked being a ghost to startle me—” “The thief is Madame Torai,” she cut in. “I suspected her from the start—the missing sack confirmed it. Her ‘lemur scratches’ were likely old nail wounds. These past days, I’ve scoured library books on lemurs—none mention poisonous claws.” Her thoroughness impressed me anew. “You’ve investigated already? I meant to do the same.” “But where’s the sack now? My belongings are inside—even if it holds her secrets, I’ve every right to examine it.” Her resolve hardened like tempered steel. “It’s no longer here.” “Not here—?” “I mailed it per Madame’s request.” For the first time, color drained from her impassive face. “You’ve doomed us! Tell me you didn’t address it to the Spider House!” “Spider House?” The unfamiliar name baffled me. “In Peyton City—” “Yes—” “I addressed it to the Insect Farm there.” “That Insect Farm *is* the Spider House! If that notebook reaches them—” Her voice frayed. “Then I’ll retrieve it myself! I noted the owner’s name—Anakawa Jinzou.”

“You speak of madness! Enter that house and poisonous spiders will devour you—entangled in their silk until you cannot move a limb, with no hope of returning alive.” In this civilized era, could there truly exist venomous spiders like those from ancient ghost stories—bred to ensnare and kill humans with their threads? As she spoke these words, Hideko shuddered violently, as if the mere recollection chilled her to the bone.

**Chapter Thirty-Five: A Horror That Makes Your Hair Stand on End** Was this Insect Farm truly a place that bred spiders? A “Spider House”—what an unheard-of enterprise! Did they feed people to giant spiders and let them cocoon their victims in silk? Watching Hideko tremble with fear, I involuntarily shuddered, a chill spreading through my entire body. This was the same Hideko who had remained unflappable even when facing a ferocious tiger—if even *speaking* of it made her quake, the place must be truly horrifying. Yet this was no archaic ghost story; in our modern age, how could man-eating spiders large enough to devour humans exist? Such horrors might lurk in barbaric lands teeming with wild beasts and venomous snakes, but here in Britain—the pinnacle of civilization—what room was there for Hideko’s venomous spiders? Though I quickly dismissed the notion, I found myself burning to visit that Insect Farm. Whether I could recover Hideko’s notebook mattered less than witnessing firsthand the gruesome reality she described—of being ensnared in poisonous silk, rendered immobile, and devoured alive. But in my current state, it was impossible. Once the doctor deemed me fit, however, I would go without fail.

But more than that, what I found suspicious at present was the relationship between Madame Torai and Hideko. Seizing the moment to press further, I asked: “But Miss Hideko—for your own attendant to steal your notebook... isn’t that excessively cruel?” “Yes, she serves as my attendant,” Hideko replied, “but she’s someone I cannot let my guard down around in the slightest. When in good health, she would scheme various matters—we might have quarreled countless times.” Of course I knew clashes of opinion occurred between Hideko and Madame Torai—I had indeed heard them arguing vehemently during our first night at the local inn, as previously recorded. Thus Hideko’s words carried no falsehood. Yet if this were so, why did she not dismiss the woman? “If she’s someone so untrustworthy,” I pressed, “why keep her employed?” “It’s not that I choose to retain her—our ties cannot be severed. This isn’t some recent association. I have no choice but to endure it.” I remained deeply skeptical and merely uttered, “Hmm... *that*?” Hideko added by way of explanation: “Because she is my wet nurse.” Ah—now it made sense! Naturally a wet nurse would assume that supervisory air toward Hideko. Even if dismissed, such a woman might persist in following her charge. Moreover, having known Hideko’s secrets since infancy, she could never be easily discharged.

That day ended there, but the next day, they decided to drag nets through the mansion's moat to investigate O-Ura's disappearance. I found it utterly unthinkable that her corpse might lie at the bottom—though I knew she had once feigned throwing herself into the moat after pressuring me to revive our old engagement, she was hardly the type for suicide. Her immediate return after luring Hideko back proved that much. The notion of someone having thrown her in seemed equally baseless—her vanishing had occurred in a sealed room, wholly unrelated to the moat. Hearing of this plan, I immediately asked my uncle, "Why fixate on searching the moat?" He replied with slight unease: "It wasn't my initiative. With no leads, both the detective and Mr. Takanawatari grew deeply concerned. Unable to ignore their distress, I suggested to Takanawatari, 'Since we've exhausted all avenues, perhaps we should check the moat as a precaution.' At that, he eagerly agreed: 'I've actually wanted to search the moat myself! If you approve, let's begin at once!'" Takanawatari took charge of persuading the detective, who answered hesitantly: "To dredge without a single clue—merely because there's a deep moat—would disgrace my profession." Yet he couldn't dismiss the words of someone offering a 1,000 yen reward. Takanawatari pressed: "We aren't dredging blindly! Didn't we find trampled embankment grass? With such evidence, we must investigate." Since my uncle had proposed this himself, he voiced support from the sidelines. Finally, the detective relented. Preparations had already begun—boats launched from the boathouse, local constables dispatched to oversee operations—they were likely starting now. Of course I raised no objection; even if futile, precaution demanded it. I merely replied, "Ah, I see," but what horrific results this dredging would yield—not even clairvoyant readers could foresee it then. Reflecting now, such an unimaginably dreadful outcome could never recur—truly enough to make one's hair stand on end.

**Chapter Thirty-Six: A Momentous Discovery** They had already begun searching the moat’s depths—what might emerge? Though I longed to go witness it myself, I had yet to receive the doctor’s permission to venture out. Instead, I resolved to observe from the tower’s heights. Not that merely going to the moat’s edge would worsen my condition, but now was the time to exercise utmost caution. Battles unknown might lie ahead: perhaps a journey to that den of poisonous spiders they called the Spider House; perhaps exerting myself to the utmost for Hideko’s sake. Whatever came, I had to treat my body with care—nurturing it back to its former ironclad vigor as swiftly as possible.

I climbed up to my room on the tower’s fourth floor, but the view proved insufficient. Though I rarely ascended higher, I ventured up another level to the clock chamber—a vantage point I could finally tolerate. The moat and its embankment lay fully visible below. Three small boats floated in its waters: one carrying the detective issuing orders, and two manned by local constables dragging nets. No matter how long they dredged, Urahara O-Ura’s vanished form could not possibly lie as a corpse beneath that surface—they might at best snag a catfish, I thought—yet I found myself compelled to watch until the end. Such is human nature, I suppose.

As I watched, a sound like the flapping wings of a large bird erupted above my head—this was the prelude to the tolling of the tower’s clock, renowned for its secret mechanisms. Up close, the noise was terrifyingly loud. Though I had heeded Hideko’s warnings, I had never deeply studied the clock’s inner workings. Now, suspecting something unusual occurred when it struck the hour, I rose to inspect it. The clock’s face measured ten feet in diameter—three times larger than it appeared from below. At the edge of its rear panel, a circular iron plate roughly three feet across had been affixed. Painted an inexplicable green, its purpose eluded me; it seemed unrelated to the clock’s mechanics. Testing whether it could be removed, I strained to shift it, but it refused to budge. Tapping it produced a hollow clang, like striking an iron door—its thickness undeniable.

Given the clock’s singularly unusual mechanism, I became so absorbed in examining the iron plate that I momentarily forgot about the moat. At the plate’s center was a hole barely large enough for a human hand—though its interior lay pitch-black. I attempted to insert my hand, but my rugged fingers proved too large; even a woman or child’s hand would struggle. Worse, the hole’s edges were rough and jagged with rust, ensuring anyone who reached inside would suffer deep scratches. Suddenly, I realized: Madame Torai’s injured hand. She had scaled this tower under the guise of a ghostly apparition and thrust her hand into this very hole! That’s it—that’s it! And since Hideko knew of this hole’s existence, she had discerned Madame Torai’s guilt at once.

Even as I now wondered anew why Madame Torai would perform such an aberrant act—climbing this tower late at night to insert her hand into the iron plate’s hole—the clock began striking the hour: four o’clock in the afternoon. Strangely, with each toll of the bell, the iron plate shifted slightly, rotating naturally to the right. Were the clock to strike twelve, the plate would surely complete a full revolution. Each time it turned, light leaked through the central hole from outside. *How peculiar*, I thought. Every time the light seeped in, I pressed my eye to the aperture to investigate, but the illumination slanted downward from above—utterly celestial. In pitch darkness, no such light could penetrate. Yet through this hole, one could not directly glimpse the sky; it merely faced straight ahead, its depths obscuring whatever lay beyond. After four strikes, the clock fell silent, the plate ceased moving, and the hole returned to total blackness—but I had made a momentous discovery.

It was none other than this—among the Marube family’s charm verses were lines that had seemed utterly nonsensical, yet they pointed precisely to this clock’s iron plate and hole! Readers will recall the ninth verse—“Bells toll, green sways”—and the tenth—“Faint light flickers.” Yes! “Bells toll” meant the clock striking the hour; “green sways” described this green-painted iron plate’s movement; “faint light flickers” captured the glimmer shining through this hole! Ah, I hadn’t known—I hadn’t known! Now it was clear—those verses were no madman’s ravings! They held genuine mysteries! No wonder generations of Marube heads had been compelled to memorize them! This was why Hideko had so urgently advised me to study the charms and diagrams! Even phrases like “A hundred bushels of bright pearls, royal blessings bestowed” must conceal concrete meanings! From now on, I would study these charms and diagrams in earnest—lines like “Where mystery dwells, silently unroll the scrolls” suddenly radiated solemn purpose! Madame Torai’s hand injury from reaching into this hole? She too must have been secretly researching to decipher these verses! Her theft of Hideko’s notebook? All for this! Hideko’s acute anxiety over the notebook? Precisely that!

Indeed, judging by Hideko’s evident concern, that notebook must have contained extraordinarily detailed records—and rightly so. For even I, who had merely climbed here briefly, had made such discoveries; how much more must Hideko, who had researched daily for so long, have already deciphered all its secrets? This investigation of the tower’s heights would yield far better results than dredging the moat, I mused silently. But just then, an eerie clamor of shouts rose from the moat’s direction. Though I couldn’t discern their meaning, I hurried to the corridor and saw something large entangled in a net, being hoisted onto a boat. I rushed down to my room, fetched my binoculars, and returned to adjust the focus—only to gasp in shock. What could this netted object be? Readers may find it diverting to speculate—all would be revealed next time.

**Chapter Thirty-Seven: A Clean Severance** The object caught in the net and hauled up—as seen through my binoculars—resembled a large, clumsily wrapped furoshiki bundle. Though somewhat coated in mud, this moat connects to flowing rivers both upstream and downstream; despite its broken sluice gate, the water constantly circulates, leaving its bottom relatively clean—unlike common stagnant moats with their unrefreshed, muddy waters harmful to health. Thus, though soiled, the retrieved item was not so obscured as to defy identification. It was unmistakably a furoshiki bundle—not a particularly old one at that. Now, what could be inside? When the constables’ boat hauled up, the detective’s boat also hastily rowed to that spot, and the detective began issuing instructions.

After considerable effort, they finally extricated the object from the net and placed it in the boat—but good heavens! From one end of that clumsily wrapped bundle protruded something long. What could it be? I wiped my binocular lenses and peered again. It resembled a human leg—where mud clung between pale bluish-white patches, unmistakably a woman’s limb. Had Uncle and Takanawatari’s suspicions proven correct? Could O-Ura truly lie submerged in the moat’s depths as a corpse?

I felt sick to my core, yet I couldn’t tear my eyes from the binoculars. The detective and constables appeared equally stunned. Soon, the boat reached the base of the embankment. A crowd surged toward the spot. The bundled cloth was hauled onto the bank. My uncle turned his face away as though unable to bear the sight. Takanawatari spoke urgently to the detective, who then shifted his attention to my uncle. For a moment, it seemed a discussion had begun between them.

Later, I learned this discussion apparently revolved around a debate over whether to open the furoshiki bundle on-site or indoors. Police regulations mandated that all such items be inspected without moving them from the scene, so the constables adamantly refused to bring it inside. However, my uncle—fearing repercussions for the family’s reputation depending on its contents—implored the detective to examine it away from prying eyes. After persistent entreaties, they reluctantly acquiesced.

After some time, several constables arrived at the house carrying the furoshiki bundle. Staying atop the tower now served no purpose—I stowed my binoculars in their case and descended. The bundle was placed in the dirt-floored area adjacent to the billiard room, where it would be opened. But my first glimpse of that bundle shocked me. For it was no ordinary wrapping cloth—it was an exquisite Eastern textile, none other than the tablecloth that had draped O-Ura’s desk on the day of her disappearance. That tablecloth had remained intact until her vanishing act, only to disappear alongside her—a fact I had learned during my convalescence. Indeed, my uncle had once asked me, “The valuable tablecloth has gone missing—you haven’t moved it to another room, have you?” This was that very tablecloth.

The detective, assuming the role of protagonist in this scene, began unwrapping the bundle. The protruding foot was unmistakably that of a woman. Working upward from the foot, he continued unraveling it. As he loosened the wrappings slightly, the hem of a kimono emerged—one I recognized as the very garment O-Ura had worn on the day of her disappearance. With a knowing look, the detective declared, “Ah—this isn’t drowning victim. No water in the lungs. She was already dead when thrown into the moat.” Next emerged a large stone tied near the waist—a clear precaution to prevent the corpse from surfacing. My uncle could scarcely bear to look, yet he seemed to muster desperate courage to endure the sight. When the detective reached the hands, he alone remained utterly composed, calmly scrutinizing both of them in detail. Each hand bore two rings. “Do you recognize these?” he asked my uncle. Of course he did. For years, I had grown weary of seeing those four rings glittering on both of O-Ura’s hands. My uncle—unlike his former self as the prosecutor general I had previously described—now had nerves grown exceedingly fragile. He could not muster a proper reply, merely answering, “I bought them for her,” unable even to utter O-Ura’s name. When the detective pressed relentlessly—“Who did you buy them for?”—I intervened and spoke on her behalf: “For Urahara O-Ura.”

The sight was too ghastly—even I lacked the courage to look further, let alone Uncle. The thought of seeing O-Ura’s face, frozen in resentment beneath the water’s surface, was unbearable. I bowed my head and shut my eyes for a time. Then the detective cried out—a man of his composure raising such an alarm meant something extraordinary had occurred. Several constables echoed, “This is too much!” What could it be? I lifted my gaze and shuddered uncontrollably. O-Ura had no face. Her head had been cleanly severed at the neck, leaving only a stump—the cut so precise it could only have been made by an exceedingly sharp blade. What inhuman cruelty could drive someone to such an act? To kill someone, sever their head and hide it, then sink the headless corpse into a moat—this was no human deed. It was the work of a demon.

**Chapter Thirty-Eight: The Headless Corpse** Readers have likely never seen a headless corpse—ghastly to behold, of course—but this one appeared unnaturally stunted and misshapen. O-Ura had been quite tall and elegantly proportioned in life, yet now she seemed robbed of all grace. Indeed, with the head—that paramount counterbalance of the body—gone, it was only natural her form had crumbled into ruin. The horrific sight left everyone momentarily speechless, unable even to meet one another’s eyes—Milton’s line about fearing to read one’s own dread in others’ faces was precisely that. The first to break the silence was Detective Mori Mondo, muttering as if to himself: “If this truly proves to be Urahara O-Ura’s corpse, it’s a profound disappointment.” Why disappointment? He continued: “Every hypothesis I’ve constructed until now would be utterly mistaken.” From these words, it seemed he had believed until this moment that O-Ura was still alive.

Hearing the detective’s words, Takanawatari—who had been holding his breath until now—leapt up as though sprung from a coil and cried in a wretched voice: “How can this *not* be Miss Urahara’s corpse? Had she been safe, she would have been my wife by now!” Tears streamed down his face as he clung to O-Ura’s remains. “Who did this to you? Urako-san, Urako-san… I swear Takanawatari Nagazo will strike down your enemy!” But no reply came from the headless figure.

My uncle, unable to bear the sight any longer, had vanished without a trace. The detective continued muttering to himself: "Yet when such unexpected developments arise, they make a detective’s job far easier. With no leads at all, there’s nothing to work with—but now we have a corpse. A headless corpse at that! No clue could be clearer. True, it may dampen the thrill of the chase, but our chances of success have soared. That 1,000 yen reward of yours, Mr. Takanawatari—I’ll be claiming it soon enough." Takanawatari seemed entranced. “Even 2,000 yen—I’ll pay it! Just find the culprit quickly—please, *quickly*!” he pleaded in a tearful voice. The detective grew even calmer. “In that case,” he declared—too loudly for a soliloquy— “it will be faster to investigate in London than here.”

“This was such an outlandish notion—investigating a local crime in London—that I asked, ‘Do you suspect this case has connections to London?’” “No concrete leads yet,” replied the detective, “but in my experience, petty crimes stay local. But for grave, peculiar cases like this? Victory always goes to detectives investigating them in London.” “Then you’ll go to London?” “Yes. But first,” he said, his voice lowering like clockwork gears meshing, “I must see how the coroner examines this corpse. Until then, my judgment remains suspended.”

After saying this, he continued meticulously examining every part of the corpse. Soon, he exclaimed, “Ah! What’s this?”—retrieving a withered-looking object from the corpse’s kimono pocket. Upon closer inspection, it was none other than that peculiar glove Matsutani Hideko had worn on her left hand. Takanawatari Nagazo’s eyes widened. “D-Detective Mori—I do believe I recognize this item.” Detective: “Is that so? If you indeed recognize it, then *that* is our most formidable clue.” Takanawatari: “Even if I recognize it, I cannot speak of it carelessly. I will never forget this glove for as long as I live.” I too shall never forget this glove for as long as I live. That it lay in O-Ura’s pocket posed no mystery—she had forcibly taken it from Hideko before vanishing—yet for Hideko, this may well become the very root of gravest suspicion.

I could no longer remain there and withdrew after informing the detective. The household members all wore pale faces, as though even the slightest noise were forbidden. Words were uttered only in whispers; footsteps within rooms fell as lightly as tiptoes. Unspoken yet pervasive, fear had filled the house—yet within that fear hung heaviest the suspicion toward Hideko. Though none voiced it aloud, all seemed to believe in their hearts that Hideko bore responsibility for O-Ura’s death. Just as fear saturated the house, so too did suspicion permeate its walls. Amidst this, dusk had already fallen when I was summoned by the detective and returned to the corpse’s chamber. The body now lay draped in white cloth. “Who should we assign to keep watch tonight?” The detective replied, “Several officers will take shifts. I only wish to inform you about tomorrow’s autopsy.” “I will ensure preparations are made.” “For tomorrow’s autopsy,” he said, particularly stressing Hideko’s name, “only your uncle, you, Takanawatari Nagazo, the Konsai couple, and Matsutani Hideko will be summoned—prepare accordingly.” Was this a veiled warning that Hideko’s guilt was inescapable? I merely replied, “Understood,” and left. Yet how much more would this corpse shock us? At the next day’s autopsy, something surpassing even its missing head would be revealed.

**Chapter Thirty-Nine: The Crux of the Case**

What might be revealed in tomorrow's corpse examination remained unknown, yet I could not calm my mind. That night, I lay nearly sleepless, pondering endlessly—yet no conclusion emerged.

Who could have killed O-Ura? If Hideko did it, all became clear. She had indeed been forced into a situation where killing O-Ura was unavoidable—her secret had been exposed, leaving no method to ensure silence except murder. She had even explicitly threatened to kill her, demonstrating a resolve that appeared fully capable of following through. Then they had engaged in a physical struggle, and Hideko threw O-Ura onto the floorboards. What transpired afterward remained unknown, but from that moment onward, O-Ura disappeared—only to resurface today from the moat’s depths.

Considering this alone, I could not help but conclude it was Hideko’s doing. Yet what remained difficult to reconcile was *how* she could have killed O-Ura unnoticed, hidden the corpse in that room, severed its head at some unknown moment, and then sunk it into the moat’s depths—all without detection. Of course, I had not been monitoring Hideko’s every move; I had lain bedridden for a week afterward, during which she might have accomplished anything. Perhaps when she threw O-Ura down, she had actually removed a floorboard—what I had heard as a body hitting the floor was in truth her casting O-Ura beneath the floorboards, only to retrieve the corpse under cover of night, wrap it in the tablecloth, and carry it to the moat.

But I did not believe Hideko to be a woman capable of such acts—no, at least not yet at this time. If such a beautiful face were to commit such deeds, the beauty that should be humanity’s foremost emblem would lose all worth. Though it is true there have been women whose hearts belied their fair countenances, a face serves as love’s measure sevenfold in ten. Most affection springs from exchanged glances or shared readings of joy, anger, sorrow, and pleasure writ upon visages. Were a countenance as exquisite as Hideko’s not a ledger of comely virtue, would not the very scales of human affection and esteem be shattered sevenfold?

Yet even so, it seemed even less conceivable that anyone other than Hideko could have killed O-Ura. If not her, then who? Suicide? Could O-Ura have severed her own head, hidden it somewhere, tied stones to her waist, wrapped her body in the tablecloth, and leapt into the moat? No—a headless corpse could not perform such feats. Then who killed her? Yet there remained not a single soul to accuse. I spent the entire next morning turning these thoughts over until at last I arrived at a single question: *What had become of O-Ura’s head?* Then came another: *Why had she been left headless?* Deeming it negligent that the detective hadn’t investigated this angle, I resolved to seek him out first thing in the morning. But unable to locate him, I wandered the corridors until I spotted him emerging from Madame Torai’s room. “Well, well,” I thought, approaching him. “What were you doing in Madame Torai’s room?” “I wanted to inquire about Miss Hideko’s background in detail.” “But given Madame’s illness, she likely couldn’t answer properly.” “Her fever broke yesterday—she’s much improved now. We conversed without difficulty. Judging by her condition, she should awaken fully by morning. She claims anxiety has left her unable to sleep.” “And did you learn anything about Hideko’s background?” “No—his wife said she was merely hired as an attendant and knows no details.” “It appears his wife concealed having been Hideko’s wet nurse, presenting herself as a recent acquaintance.” I said, “You seem to harbor considerable suspicion toward Hideko.” “A detective who suspects people errs,” he replied. “I suspect no one—I merely investigate evidence impartially. Yet Miss Hideko undeniably stands accused by all now. Her violent quarrel with Miss O-Ura is widely known.” “But Detective Mori—why does O-Ura’s corpse lack a head?”

For some reason, Detective Mori flinched at this question as though struck in a vital spot, clamping shut his normally talkative mouth. I pressed: “What happened to the head?” The detective finally said, “That is precisely the crux of this case. If you noticed that particular point, you have an exceptionally keen eye.” Even praised, I could not grasp why this was the crux of the case. Observing my flustered state, the detective seemed to infer I had merely fixated on the headless state without reason. Adopting a faintly derisive tone, he said, “Likely, killing alone did not sate their grudge—they severed the head out of vengeance. As they say, burying the head and torso separately prevents the soul from finding peace.” “It’s always women who do such things. Countless examples exist of them killing those they resent for their beauty—out of jealousy or the like—then slicing their faces to ribbons.” He spoke convincingly enough, but it was clear that Mori’s focus on the corpse’s missing head as the crux of this case was not for such shallow reasons. Desperate to uncover the true motive, I racked my brains but could not fathom it. “Where is the head?” I pressed. “Where could it possibly be hidden?” “Ah, there it is—precisely the point I must investigate in London to uncover the truth!” declared the detective with genuine fervor. Though my confusion only deepened, I could not press him further and fell silent. Soon after, the hour of the autopsy arrived.

**Chapter Forty: Around Thirty**

The autopsy of O-Ura’s corpse had finally commenced, and I felt compelled to briefly explain to readers the nature of such proceedings. A corpse examination resembled a judicial trial. Beyond the coroner, a police physician naturally attended, with twelve jury members present. These jurors adjudicated various matters—it was not merely an inspection of remains. First: Whose corpse was this? Second: Had they died by their own hand or another’s? Third: If murdered, was it premeditated or impulsive? Fourth: Who committed the act? Fifth: What was the perpetrator’s motive? Sixth: Should this individual face formal trial? These six points formed the inquiry’s scope. Thus through standard autopsy procedures, suspects were identified and prosecution viability determined. Should jury suspicion fall upon Matsutani Hideko, catastrophe loomed—she would inevitably be hauled before the courts. I was desperate to save her. Seizing my chance as a witness interrogated before the coroner, I wished to assert facts favorable to Hideko and compel jurors to declare no identifiable suspect regarding this corpse. Yet tragically, not one detail favored her. Were I to recount all I knew, Hideko could never escape condemnation. Even declaring my conviction—“This woman commits no evil!”—would prove utterly futile.

Since practically every member of the household—one might say without exception—suspected Hideko, it stood to reason that the jury would suspect her as well. Takanawatari Nagazo in particular would surely not rest until she was arrested. Thinking this way, I was filled with dread at the prospect of the autopsy—yet my fears proved futile. At the appointed hour, without a moment’s delay, the autopsy commenced. The location was the grand hall adjacent to the billiard room—and there lay O-Ura’s corpse.

The first witness summoned was my uncle. As the initiator who had proposed dredging the moat, he was questioned about why he had focused attention there. Next came Takanawatari, followed by Madame Konsai, then Hideko, and finally myself in that order. Though I could not directly observe how these individuals responded to the coroner’s inquiries, I later learned that when asked, “Whom do you identify this corpse as?” my uncle had answered, “I recognize it as our former foster daughter, O-Ura.” Takanawatari had replied with pedantic caution: “As it is a headless corpse, I cannot definitively identify anyone,” but when pressed—“Do you recognize the clothing and other items on the body?”—he stated, “I recognize every item here as what Miss Ura wore on the day she vanished,” earning praise for his clarity. Both Madame Konsai and Hideko likewise affirmed the corpse was undoubtedly O-Ura’s and acknowledged familiarity with the belongings. However, the coroner fixated on Hideko, pressing her about that peculiar glove. Without hesitation, she disclosed it was hers—torn from her hand by O-Ura on the day of the disappearance—and recounted how O-Ura had vanished from the study. When pressed about their altercation, she admitted to quarreling but refused to divulge the cause, stating only, “I leave that to your discernment.” The coroner concluded jealousy as the motive, deeming Hideko a credible suspect—a view the jury reportedly echoed in whispers, as though further inquiry were superfluous.

As Hideko withdrew, I was summoned in her stead. With no prepared defense, my chest surged like storm-tossed waves. Even as I walked toward the examination chamber, I wondered if this was how lambs felt approaching slaughter. At the threshold, I encountered Detective Mori and the police doctor whispering as they exited. In passing, I caught fragments of the doctor’s words—“around thirty.” What could “around thirty” mean? Though I dismissed it as trivial then, this phrase would later ignite catastrophic revelations. Standing before the coroner, I licked the Bible as custom dictated and swore “to tell no lies.” When first asked whose corpse this might be, I nearly echoed previous witnesses—“Urahara O-Ura”—but then recalled those cryptic words and hesitated. “I cannot answer definitively without closer inspection,” I replied evasively—a hollow stalling tactic, yet preferable to condemning Hideko by association. “Examine it thoroughly,” permitted the coroner. With his assent, I scrutinized every inch of those remains—hands to feet—and made a discovery that plunged this shadowy affair into deeper mystery: “This corpse bears no resemblance whatsoever to Urahara O-Ura!” The coroner arched an eyebrow. “Yet all prior witnesses identified it as your former fiancée’s remains.” “They are mistaken,” I declared. “I stake my oath upon it—this is not her body.”

**Chapter Forty-One: As If Even I Were a Lie**

The fact that this corpse was not O-Ura's felt like a lie even to myself—dressed in O-Ura's clothes, wearing O-Ura's rings, wrapped in this house's finest tablecloth—it seemed impossible by any logic that it wasn't her. Yet it wasn't O-Ura. I had discovered irrefutable proof. Naturally, the coroner was astonished; the jury too. One might say there wasn't a single unshocked person in the room. After brief deliberation, the coroner turned to me and demanded, "Why do you claim this isn't O-Ura?" I provided a meticulous account. When I was twelve or thirteen, my uncle had taken O-Ura and me to a summer retreat in Shisekku. There, O-Ura and I had entered a mountain stream—barefoot, of course—where she suffered a severe injury to her foot's sole. At that time, stonecutters had been quarrying upstream, leaving sharp fragments littering the riverbed. O-Ura had unfortunately stepped on one such edge and slipped. The gash stretched nearly an inch long. Not only had the wound remained as she grew, but the scar itself had lengthened with her foot until it spanned two inches—a fact O-Ura herself had recounted during our recent reminiscence about childhood days. Yet this corpse's soles showed no trace of scarring.

An even more definitive piece of evidence dates to when O-Ura was sixteen or seventeen. I had learned the art of tattooing from a sailor I was acquainted with and inked an anchor design on my own arm. Out of envy, O-Ura pleaded with me to tattoo hers as well. Complying with her wish, I tattooed floral patterns near her inner arm where it would be concealed beneath sleeves—though I only outlined the design, as she found the pain intolerable and we abandoned coloring it in, leaving only the inked contours. I distinctly recall seeing those outlines last summer when she wore evening attire. Not only I—others among her acquaintances must have glimpsed it occasionally, Madame Konsai being certainly one of them. Yet this corpse’s arms bear no such markings.

When I asserted these two points, the examiner was astonished. He immediately summoned my uncle again and interrogated him, but my uncle too remembered the matter of the large scar on her foot. Next, he summoned Madame Konsai and interrogated her as well, whereupon she now testified that she had indeed recalled seeing a tattoo on Miss Urahara’s arm that became visible when she wore evening attire. Ultimately, my thorough examination of this corpse stemmed solely from having overheard the doctor whisper “around thirty” to the detective at the entrance. Since everyone was wholly preoccupied with the corpse at that moment, “around thirty” must have referred to it—but what aspect of the corpse could be “around thirty”? Could it be its age? If so, might this not be someone other than O-Ura? Such doubts briefly surfaced in my mind. Had I not overheard those words, I might have unquestioningly accepted it as O-Ura and likely never recalled those two critical pieces of evidence.

I didn't know what readers might think, but if this corpse wasn't O-Ura's, it would truly become an extraordinary matter.

First, all previous investigative efforts regarding O-Ura’s disappearance had been rendered utterly futile—her whereabouts and whether she lived or died remained unknown. Second arose doubts: Who was this corpse? For what reason had they met such a cruel fate? Third emerged suspicion: Why would this woman be wearing O-Ura’s clothes and even her rings? The third suspicion held grave significance. To clothe this corpse in O-Ura’s garments required either someone capturing O-Ura and stripping her of clothes and rings, or O-Ura herself removing her own attire and dressing this person in them. Had they been dressed before being killed or after? Whichever the case, it constituted a mystery within a mystery.

But setting aside such considerations for now—what purpose could there have been for doing this? There would be no reason to dress another woman in O-Ura’s clothes and sink her into the moat without intent. It must have been designed to deceive others by presenting this corpse as hers. If so, why would they wish to deceive? The first possibility: to make it appear O-Ura had died so she herself might escape far away or undertake some covert mission. The second: perhaps disguising herself as dead to cast murder suspicion upon someone else. If this latter scheme held true, it must have been the work of those who despised Hideko—for the circumstances naturally conspired to fix suspicion upon her.

If this scheme aimed to cast suspicion on Hideko, then none but O-Ura herself could have orchestrated it—was she not the very woman who had plotted to entrap Hideko in a tiger's den and murder her? Yet could even a woman's hand—however bold—execute such a brutal act? Though they say women act more decisively than men in desperate moments—perhaps this was such an instance. In any case—no, not merely for my sake or Hideko's, but for the entire Marube household—affairs grew ever darker. With matters unfolding thus, who could predict what might transpire in the end?

Yet amidst all this, the single realization that crystallized in my mind was the matter of the corpse’s missing head. Had it remained attached, it would have immediately revealed this was not O-Ura. No matter how thoroughly they dressed it in her clothes or forced her rings onto its fingers, it would have been futile. The decapitation stemmed from the very same design as clothing it in those garments—to erase identifiable features. Of course—of course! Now I understood Detective Mori’s words. When I asked why the corpse lacked a head, he had reacted with peculiar astonishment, praising me for “spotting the critical point.” That bastard must have suspected from the very beginning that this corpse wasn’t O-Ura’s—that the missing head itself proved it couldn’t be her. No wonder he muttered upon first seeing the body, “If this were Urako’s corpse, it would ruin everything,” and lamented his earlier deductions being overturned. Truly, he lived up to his reputation. Clearly, he had discerned something about this case from the start—something as substantial as my own theories. How I wished to know what he’d uncovered! But he’d never tell me outright. I supposed I had no choice but to await developments—though this waiting felt interminable.

**Chapter Forty-Two: The Recompense of a Single Word** Though numerous grounds for suspicion remained, one fact now stood incontrovertible—this corpse was not O-Ura’s. My testimony could not be overturned. Within less than an hour, the jury rendered their verdict as follows.

“Murder committed by one or more unidentified individuals against an unidentified woman.” Not knowing who had killed or been killed must have frustrated the examiner, but there was nothing to be done. The corpse was immediately removed from the house to be buried in the common grave. The jury disbanded. Detective Mori Mondo declared he would have to return to London to investigate further and left. The Konsai couple withdrew from Toraisō-an and returned to their London residence, claiming they could no longer stay in such a dreadful place. Though Takanawatari Nagazo initially felt relieved that the corpse wasn’t O-Ura’s, he now seemed deeply troubled about her true whereabouts. Having lost his lodging at Toraisō-an, he began staying at this house per his agreement with my uncle—though only for as long as necessary to search for O-Ura. I found this arrangement vaguely disquieting. Hideko surely felt the same. But given the mansion’s size, avoiding his face outside mealtimes would prove simple enough.

In any case, with the coroner’s verdict of “an unidentified corpse murdered by an unidentified perpetrator,” the terrible suspicion against Hideko had vanished. I wanted to inform Hideko immediately to bring her joy and was heading straight to her room when I encountered Madame Torai in the hallway. She hastily stopped me and said, “I heard you claimed it wasn’t Miss Ura’s corpse. Did your claim hold? What was the verdict?” “The verdict has ruled her an unidentified woman,” I replied. “Oh, what a relief! Miss Matsutani must be overjoyed,” she said. “How bitterly she must have lamented being subjected to such suspicion until now!” “Even so, you’re in no condition to exert yourself.” “No, my fever has subsided—I’m no longer ill. As you can see, I’m frail and worn out, but I couldn’t bear to see Miss Matsutani suffering and pretend not to notice. That’s why I’ve been eavesdropping on the autopsy proceedings and relaying the details to her.” Even a villain remained a wet nurse at heart—to think she’d fret so deeply over the young lady made me feel an unexpected pang of pity. “Then go inform her of the verdict yourself at once,” I urged. “No—now that I’ve found relief, my strength has utterly drained away,” she dismissed me abruptly. “I must return to my room to rest—please inform the young lady yourself.” With this, she retreated toward her chamber, shuffling weakly as if every step might be her last.

I went immediately to Hideko’s room to find her face deathly pale, her entire being weighed down by anxiety. She lacked even the strength to rise at my arrival, so I stroked her back soothingly and said, “Miss Hideko—rejoice! The verdict has ruled that corpse isn’t O-Ura’s, with both perpetrator and victim remaining unidentified.” Hideko rose with such sudden vigor it seemed she had been reborn. “Ah, how truly grateful I am,” she said. “You saved my life once—and now you’ve preserved what matters more than life itself.” “There’s no need for such gratitude over so trivial a matter.” “No—you say that because you understand nothing,” Hideko countered. “Had suspicion fallen upon me, I couldn’t have continued living even if proven innocent. Yes—this is truth itself. That’s why I had summoned Gonda Tokisuke to entrust him with matters after my death.” The thought that she would turn to that attorney Gonda in her darkest hour rather than me filled me with inexplicable irritation. “And has Attorney Gonda arrived yet?” “Yes—he should be here any moment.” “I wish I were in Gonda’s place,” I pressed. “If only you’d trust me as you do him, I’d exert myself a hundredfold more for your sake.” “Oh, as for trust—” Her voice faltered momentarily. “You may not realize how deeply I rely on you.” “Yet though you rely on me, won’t you grant me even a single word of love in return?” Was this jealousy? I hadn’t meant to voice such thoughts, yet the words tumbled out unbidden. Hideko murmured, “What good is gaining the love of someone like me—a woman who can never become anyone’s wife?” “Whether you become my wife matters not—only that I may believe you love me—” “Then believe it,” she said abruptly, then—as if regretting her words—pressed her forehead against my chest.

In a dreamlike trance, I said, “Miss Hideko, hearing those words from you, I would sacrifice my life—no, whatever circumstances bar you from becoming someone’s wife, I shall overcome them! No hardship shall deter me—” Hideko recoiled as if scalded. “It cannot be, Mr. Marube—I had forgotten something dreadful. Though you saved me this time, I am beset by far greater terrors—without hope of deliverance. I cannot become your wife… nor long remain in this world.” Her words remained shrouded in enigma as ever—their true nature elusive yet undeniably sincere. “How could such circumstances exist?” I pressed. “Until now, as an outsider, I dared not probe deeply—but having heard ‘love’ from your lips, I claim this trial as my own! What manner of burden is this? Speak plainly!” Hideko bowed her head, offering neither gaze nor reply. “If you cannot reveal it now,” I continued, “let us set that aside. First answer this—why reject becoming my wife despite your affection? Does another stand between us? If so—name him!”

At that moment, a voice announcing "Attorney Gonda" was heard from the next room, and immediately thereafter, Gonda Tokisuke entered the chamber.

Chapter Forty-Three: Hollow Promise Because Gonda Tokisuke arrived, I was interrupted from a crucial conversation. Had he come even half an hour later, I surely would have persuaded Hideko to promise we’d marry in the end—what a wasted opportunity. What Gonda would say to Hideko, and what Hideko would request of Gonda—I wanted to stay and hear it, but of course, I couldn’t possibly do so. Since I had already heard from Hideko that she had deliberately sent for Tokisuke, I had no choice but to leave this place, however reluctantly. As I glared resentfully at his face, he too looked at me as if suspecting some intimate conversation had occurred between me and Hideko. I said, “Oh, Mr. Gonda…” “Oh, Mr. Marube,” said Tokisuke, and though we exchanged nothing but cordial greetings, our true feelings beneath were a clash of fire—each of us burning the other up inside.

I had no choice but to withdraw from the room. To calm my mind, I went out to wander the garden—yet my heart refused to settle. My obsession with Hideko only intensified. Why would she summon someone like Gonda? Had she confided in me, I would have moved heaven and earth for her. Undoubtedly, Gonda had long been entangled with the secrets shrouding her existence—this suspicion wasn’t new, but what exactly was this secret? Hideko had even declared she couldn’t continue living in this world. Seeing this, her plight must be dire indeed. If only she would entrust me with the truth just once—I’d grind my bones to dust to save her. Yet she revealed everything to Gonda while concealing it from me. What secret could this be? I couldn’t discern it at all. Without knowing, I couldn’t help her—yet neither could I feign ignorance and abandon her. It was maddening—utterly maddening. Merely asking again and again wouldn’t make her confess. Perhaps my only path now was to make her promise to become my wife regardless of secrets, devote myself wholeheartedly as her betrothed, gradually earn her trust, and thereby coax the truth from her. Though this gradual approach might prove too sluggish for her urgent circumstances, I had no other recourse.

Having resolved myself thus, I went again to Hideko’s room. Inside was profoundly quiet—perhaps they were still talking? Yet such silence suggested an unusually subdued conversation. My entering was certainly improper—improper indeed—but in such critical circumstances, I couldn’t simply accommodate Attorney Gonda’s convenience. Reflecting now, it bordered on madness as I pushed open the door and entered. Well now—oh! Gonda was gone. Hideko sat alone, weeping. Though relieved, my momentum faltered utterly as I blurted, “What happened to Attorney Gonda?” Hideko hid her tear-stained face and said, “He left long ago after we finished our discussion.” Though he hadn’t even been here thirty minutes, her saying *“we finished long ago”* made it clear they’d settled matters in just five or ten—proof of how deeply they understood each other. The thought made Gonda’s swift departure all the more infuriating. I asked, “Then did Gonda go to Madame Torai’s room?” “No, he has left this house.” “Without even meeting Uncle?” “Yes, without meeting anyone.”

There was no choice but to conclude his hasty departure stemmed from the secret growing increasingly urgent. Realizing my own efforts must accelerate without delay, I resolved in an instant and laid bare all my thoughts to Hideko. At first she grew angry, declaring, “This is no time for such talk,” nearly ordering me to leave. Yet my loyalty and kindness until now must have deeply permeated her heart—indeed, she seemed to accept my sincerity henceforth as somewhat worthy of acknowledgment. Though briefly angered, she again lent ear to my words, but our heated debate ultimately culminated in her usual refrain: “I am one who can never become anyone’s wife.” Accepting this, I pressed: “Then if a time ever comes when you can become someone’s wife—will you become mine?” To which she replied: “Such a time will never come.” “If we assume what never comes might come…” “At that time, I’ll become your wife or anyone else’s.” “I can’t accept ‘anyone else’s.’ Promise you’ll become mine.” “Even if promised, it would be a vow with no time for fulfillment—completely futile.” “Futile or not—promise me!” “What good would such an empty promise do you?” “All the good! Though hollow, if this is the closest pledge you can make—not fully satisfying—I’d feel joy as if I’d won the world.” Hideko laughed unnaturally through tear-damp eyes. “Oh-ho-ho-ho! How absurd you are!” I insisted: “Absurdity matters not—just promise!” “Very well—if empty promises please you, I’ll make a hundred such vows.”

Though called empty, this promise was not truly hollow—now that it existed, Hideko had only two paths: to end her days without ever taking a husband, or to become my wife. She could not become another’s wife without first becoming mine, nor would my uncle ever permit her to remain unmarried. For my uncle prayed solely for this house to produce a worthy heir to ensure our descendants’ prosperity. Moreover, Hideko’s heart understood this promise as well—however hollow it might seem. Had she truly despised me, she would never have consented. No doubt her true self had fully resolved that no peaceful future as someone’s wife would ever come—resolved it thoroughly—yet if a time for marriage ever arrived, she surely intended to wed me. How then could I, being myself, not spare no effort to remove the obstacles in her path? Bounding excitedly from the room, I went to my uncle and announced that though no wedding date was set, I had at least secured a marital pledge with Hideko. My uncle rejoiced greatly and declared he would immediately rewrite his will to name Hideko and me as equal heirs to this house—and indeed, within three days, it was done.

However, Hideko’s calamity was more imminent than I had imagined, and in truth, it was a terrifying secret of a nature that could not be dispelled by my own power.

Chapter Forty-Four: A Light Like Stars

There were countless things I wanted to ask and say to Hideko, but neither that day nor the next could I find the opportunity. The reason was this: news of the headless corpse incident had apparently spread far and wide, bringing many visitors offering condolences. Some seemed relieved upon hearing the corpse wasn’t O-Ura’s, while others appeared suspicious. In any case, whenever Hideko became free to receive these guests, I would be occupied—and when I had time, Hideko would be otherwise engaged. Looking back now, though a truly dreadful secret crisis loomed over Hideko’s life, she somehow managed to calmly attend to guests amid her anxieties—though during these social exchanges, subtle signs of her distress certainly showed through. Others likely remained oblivious, but to my eyes, it was implicitly understood. Thus, whenever an opportunity arose, I yearned to offer comfort or press for answers—yet on this day too, as evening deepened well past midnight, Hideko ascertained that the guests were engrossed in idle chatter and stealthily slipped out of the parlor.

No, she hadn’t slipped out stealthily—she had left normally—but to my eyes, it seemed as though she had. Could it be for some secret or sacred mission? I followed after her, but already there was no sign of Hideko in the corridor; she wasn’t in the parlor either. Thinking she might be with Madame Torai, I went to her room—but even Madame Torai was absent. Though Madame Torai claimed to have recovered from her illness, she still couldn’t appear before guests—for her to leave her room past midnight was utterly abnormal. Suspecting something amiss, I ventured into the garden—but with no moon, the darkness beneath the trees was impenetrable. As I groped my way forward, I heard two voices conversing in hushed tones from behind a thicket ahead: one clear—Hideko’s—and one hoarse—Madame Torai’s.

The two came to a spot two or three ken ahead of where I was and stopped—not because they suspected my presence, but because their conversation had reached such a critical point that they forgot to keep moving. Hideko’s voice carried through the darkness: “No matter how bold they are, they would never actually come here.” “Of course they’ll come,” countered Madame Torai’s rasping tone. “This house might as well have its gates wide open—even if they wandered into the garden itself, there’d be no risk of being caught.” “Since there’s no risk,” Hideko retorted sharply, “you must have told them it was safe to come—isn’t that right?” “Why would I ever tell them such a thing?” “If it were truly them behind this,” Hideko insisted, her voice tightening, “they wouldn’t dare approach. My own hands are stained with enough misdeeds as it is.” “Proof overrules speculation,” Madame Torai hissed. “They’ve been here all along—waiting under the enoki tree yonder since before you stepped outside.”

Though I knew not who they were, they were undoubtedly those who meant harm to Hideko. I thought of dashing to the enoki tree’s shadow to apprehend them—but no, I couldn’t. To act without her consent and interfere might earn me Hideko’s gratitude or resentment; there was no telling which. Thus I reconsidered: I would quietly observe how events unfolded, only revealing myself if Hideko became gravely distressed or if violence erupted. Testing my strength in the darkness, I found my wound had fully healed—my power seemed sufficiently restored. If this were so, throwing down one or two villains would be no trouble at all.

Hideko appeared greatly startled by Madame Torai’s words and cried out, “What—they’re here tonight?” “Since even I cannot control it,” Madame Torai replied, “there’s no alternative. You must resign yourself—there’s no escaping now.” Well now—even Madame Torai had turned against Hideko and allied with these villains! Though I’d long known she stole Hideko’s notebook and sent it to that spider farm, the realization struck me anew. After a pause, Hideko demanded, “How can you ask me to resign myself?!” “Resign yourself and comply with their request,” Madame Torai pressed. “It’s no complex matter—just whisper the secret you know into his ear. You’ll lose nothing, yet it brings him great profit. Wouldn’t your future then be secure?” “I cannot permit it,” Hideko declared. “Not one word shall pass my lips.” “If you provoke his anger like this—and he’s already furious—what do you suppose will become of you if he shows no mercy?” “Hasn’t he already shown none?” Hideko retorted. “Let them sneak into this garden under night’s cover and try to meet me—I care not.” “I’ve long resigned myself to face whatever he may inflict. Should I cower before him, yield to his extortion, and divulge even a syllable of the secret, my sacred mission would lose all purpose. You know I live solely for this mission! Better to die upholding it than abandon it for comfort—this has been my resolve from the start. Lately, I’ve accepted that unforeseen obstacles may prevent its fulfillment. No threat frightens me now. I’ll remain loyal to my mission and perish with it. Had money sufficed, I’ve given him—and you—every coin demanded thus far without regret. My funds remain untouched in the bank—I begrudge nothing there. But for demands beyond money, I choose death over compliance. Tell him this: I loathe even meeting that man.” “You may loathe it,” Madame Torai snapped, “but they’ve grown tired of waiting for your answer and sent someone over there.”

In the darkness—wondering what she meant by pointing and saying someone had come over there—I looked around. About thirty ken away in the distance was a light like a single star that seemed to be approaching this way. I realized—he was smoking a cigar. The glowing tip was his tobacco ember. To sneak into someone’s mansion smoking like this marked him as an audacious fellow indeed. Soon enough, the foul stench of cheap tobacco reached even where I stood.

Chapter Forty-Five: Fists and Wit Along with the stench of cheap tobacco, the starlike light gradually drew nearer. What manner of man could this be? What exchange would unfold between him and Hideko? How would this entire affair conclude? Though I held my breath, every muscle in my body quivered as if poised to leap. Hideko turned to face Madame Torai again and said, “I refuse.” “Had I known *that man* was here from the start, I would never have come out! To deceive and bring me here is utterly cruel!” she rebuked. Madame Torai replied, “But I believed arranging this meeting was for your sake—I brought you here without malice.” “Please tell him from me that I will never yield to any extortion beyond monetary demands.” “If you say that, it’s no different from sending a challenge. He will show no mercy.” “I don’t care. As I said—since there’s no longer any hope of fulfilling my secret mission, I’ve steeled myself for this inevitable end. Please tell him from me to rebuke me as harshly as he likes.” With those final words, Hideko shook off Madame Torai and strode back toward the house—what admirable courage! Truly, without such resolve, a woman alone could never have steeled herself to devote her very being to this secret mission, whatever its nature might be.

Torai Fujin muttered, “What can you do?” but, being in her post-illness state, seemed unable to chase after or detain Hideko. Muttering to herself repeatedly, she headed toward the starlike light and vanished. Now, what should I do? Should I follow Madame’s example and head toward that starlike light to apprehend the man? No—capturing him would serve no purpose. Better to wait for his departure and tail him to uncover his identity. Surely such a villain harbored past misdeeds. If I could expose even one, no matter how he schemed against Hideko, I’d thwart him—nay, turn the tables and crush him entirely. Thus I resolved. Soon after, he and Madame Torai seemed to meet about eighteen meters from where I stood. Though their forms were invisible, I heard urgent whispers exchanged. The cigar’s glow shifted from mouth to hand, its light now lowered—perhaps chest-level—and gleaming. Their conversation soon ended: Madame retreated inside; the man departed outward. Though tempted to pursue him immediately, concern for Hideko gripped me—I needed to check what she was doing upon returning home.

First returning home and peering into the parlor, I found Hideko nonchalantly entertaining three or four night-owl gentlemen who still lingered awake, laughing and amusing themselves—truly, one could not fathom how much composure this woman held within her heart. Concluding Hideko required no immediate concern for now, I rushed straight out the front door. Though I knew that man had left through the garden’s rear exit, one could not depart anywhere from there—he must have emerged onto the main road heading toward the station. Even if his figure remained unseen, with this late hour past one o’clock and no passersby about, I felt no fear of mistaking his trail. As I mentally calculated this, the familiar stench of cheap tobacco wafted from somewhere—Ah! This was it! Just as a hound sniffs its quarry’s path, I gradually followed the odor all the way to the station.

I saw that the man with cheap tobacco had already bought a ticket, crossed the bridge to the other side of the tracks, and was waiting for the northbound train. According to the timetable, after midnight, the only northbound train passing through here was at 2:05 a.m.—there was still about half an hour left. Thinking that tailing a sly fellow like him required extreme caution, I steadied my nerves and first surveyed my surroundings. The most immediate problem was my clothing. I had come directly from the parlor still wearing my dinner jacket—this would surely arouse suspicion—but returning home was impossible. Reluctantly, I approached a station worker, showed him two five-pound coins, and asked if he would sell me his spare clothes for the night chill. To my surprise, he readily agreed. He dashed off somewhere and soon returned with a cloth bundle. When I opened it—though slightly worn, the contents were wearable: a navy overcoat and hakama trousers. Declining the hakama, I took only the overcoat and put it on; the fit was reasonably good.

Then I first bought a ticket to London, but wondering how far ahead the man had purchased his, I asked the station worker about it. He said it was to Royston Station. It seemed he wasn’t going all the way to London—apparently Royston Station was a junction for transferring to another line. When I inquired further with the station worker—who was in high spirits from our recent transaction—he read off the stations served by the connecting train, counting them on his fingers as he spoke. The other names didn’t register, but the fifth one he listed—Peyton City—somehow struck me as familiar. Ah! Yes—I had written “Insect Farm in Peyton City” on the envelope of Madame Torai’s letter! Could that man have come from that spider-infested place? The very insect farm where Hideko had shuddered at tales of venomous spiders spinning lethal webs—was I now fated to follow this villain into its depths? At this thought, my right hand instinctively reached for the pistol at my waist... only to find, with bitter dismay, that I carried no firearm. Damnation! In this dire hour, I’d have to rely on bare fists and quick wits alone.

Chapter Forty-Six: The Bizarre Affair By then, the time had arrived for the 2:05 northbound train. I crossed the bridge to the other side of the tracks and soon boarded the same carriage as him. Whether by fortune or misfortune, there were no other passengers—only he and I occupied the compartment. Under the electric light illuminating the train carriage, I saw his figure clearly for the first time—a man around fifty years old, short and rotund. His face glowed crimson as if painted with rouge—no doubt from heavy drinking, a common hue among habitual drinkers. Though one might expect his countenance to appear fearsome, it instead bore an unexpectedly gentle demeanor; he smiled amiarly enough to put even a child at ease. I recalled reading in some author’s work: Those with overtly sinister features invite immediate suspicion and thus cannot be true villains; genuine evil hides behind disarming charm. Might this man exemplify such a case? Yet upon closer inspection, his eyes held a fierce glint—the telltale gaze of one steeped in gambling dens and similar vices. No ordinary man, this.

I deemed it unwise to scrutinize him too openly, so after a cursory glance, I positioned myself opposite him and pretended to be sleepy by leaning back. Let me inform the reader here: you may recall reading in the newspapers about last autumn’s train derailment near Royston due to track failure. This very train was that train, and I too had been aboard it—though of course, being no deity, I remained oblivious to the impending disaster until it struck. Now, as I leaned sleepily against the seatback, he—still clenching his cheap tobacco—stretched out horizontally across the bench. Despite his villainy, he seemed a carefree sort; no sooner had he lain down than he emitted thunderous snoring and fell into genuine slumber. After all, it was between two and three o’clock—an hour when anyone might grow sleepy.

The clamor of his snoring vied with the train's roar, grating on my ears as I pondered, yet before I knew it, I too had fallen asleep. At the time I had no inkling how many hours passed, but later reflection suggested I must have slept over two hours, for when I jolted awake, dawn was breaking around five o'clock. There he was—the cheap tobacco man—already risen before me, staring fixedly at my sleeping face. Surely this held no malice—merely that idle act of examining a fellow passenger's features during empty hours, as anyone might do. Seizing this chance to engage him, I feigned drowsiness and asked, "Oh—did you say something to me just now?" though I knew he hadn't spoken. He replied evenly in an accent unmistakably French—alien to this region—likely a man who'd fled his ruined homeland: "No, said nothing at all." "Night trains make for lonely companions, don't they?" I ventured as an opening gambit. But he—perhaps still chafing from his botched extortion attempt that evening—seemed vaguely displeased despite his amiable face, making no effort to sustain conversation.

But then he relit a fresh cheap tobacco roll, took several deep puffs up close, and finally asked me: “You boarded at Tower Village Station, didn’t you?” I had him—this scoundrel clearly treated Ghost Tower as his hunting ground and was probing for information about its surroundings. Judging that brevity would lull his suspicions, I simply replied: “Yes.” True to form, he pressed further: “Do you reside there?” “Yes—at the village’s farthest edge since last year.” “You’ve seen inside that notorious Ghost Tower?” “Who would visit such a place steeped in terrifying rumors?” “Then you know nothing of its affairs?” “I’ve heard capital elites moved in recently for lavish renovations—though I’ve yet to merit an invitation.” “That’s Marube Asao—some bureaucrat climber. There’s a woman there recently adopted as his foster daughter—” “Ah yes—the villagers all rave about her beauty.” He sneered through tobacco smoke: “Hmph—beauty? She’s more *infamous* than fair.” “My! You’re remarkably well-informed.” Feigning wide-eyed admiration while gazing up like a simpleton, I watched him swell with un-villainous pride: “None know her better than I! Truth is—she owes me an old debt. Went collecting last night too! Now she’s grown too grand in her new station to treat with me properly.”

Though he talked too much for a villain, what struck me as truly bizarre was Hideko’s background. This bastard undoubtedly knew some secret about her—yet even so, I remained utterly convinced she’d been born a noble young lady of impeccable standing. But through his words, she somehow sounded like a woman of lowly origins. “Phrases like ‘She’s risen to a grand status now’ can only be taken at face value,” he continued. “Wears her mask so skillfully, doesn’t she? Hmph—you ought to tear it off! Or if not the mask, make her remove that left glove! See what secrets come spilling out—then we’ll see if she can remain Marube’s precious foster daughter!” “Why, even the most doting foster father would be left reeling, I tell you!” he now growled under his breath, his words dissolving into pure soliloquy.

Of course, "wearing a mask" was a metaphorical expression—it must have meant concealing her true nature. There was no possibility Hideko actually wore a physical mask. Yet hearing those words, I recalled when I first met her in dim light—her face had been so unnaturally beautiful that I momentarily wondered if she might be wearing one. Naturally, having grown accustomed to her features afterward, I thought nothing of it and simply revered her as a peerless beauty. Still, the coincidence of this man using the term "mask" struck me as eerie—if not outright uncanny.

However, such coincidences were commonplace after all—a result of my unsettled nerves from overconcern. Be that as it may, as her betrothed, I found it utterly unbearable to hear this man speak so ill of Hideko. At first glance, I had thought him a villain of profound cunning—yet here he was, divulging everything in a fit of pique! What a shallow, easily manipulated fool! I had even considered rebuking him outright, but in that moment, I realized: No—this bastard wasn’t shallow at all. He was deeply, unfathomably audacious. To deem him shallow had been *my* own shallowness.

This bastard—having failed to successfully coerce Hideko last night—now planned to first spread rumors in the vicinity about secrets she harbored, thereby unsettling her before making another attempt. Believing me to be a local, he thought that by letting me hear this much, it would spread haphazardly through the village via my words until Hideko became consumed by anxiety—so he believed. What audacity—to think he could effortlessly use me as his tool! *You bastard*—*do you think I’ll endure being your pawn?!* I sneered in the depths of my gut. Just as I turned to confront him with a fitting retort—the train collided with something, emitting a roar as if a hundred thunderclaps had struck at once—and before I could even cry “What—?!” it had already derailed and shattered. I wondered whether all the passengers had been shattered to pieces.

Chapter Forty-Seven: Anakawa Jinzou Train derailments were—regrettably—common enough occurrences that I need not belabor their nature here; readers surely knew their general character. This particular derailment had resulted from proceeding without noticing a collapsed bridge spanning roughly one ken over a small stream. There had been fourteen or fifteen injured but fortunately no fatalities—the most gravely hurt being that man with cheap tobacco who had ridden in the same car as I, while I had emerged as the least harmed among those spared injury.

Of course, I too had been thrown into a somersault by the train's violent motion, colliding against something and remaining dazed for a time—barely comprehending what had occurred. But when I realized the train had derailed, I found myself already standing amid splintered wreckage. The pitiable one was the man with cheap tobacco—though villains in such situations need not inherently incur nature's wrath to suffer worse than others. Crushed beneath the overturned carriage's floorboard, his already ruddy face had grown crimson where it protruded from under the plank, veins on his forehead swollen with agony. There he lay unconscious—a most meticulously arranged state indeed.

I wondered if this bastard had died—to speak plainly, I felt somewhat pleased that such an ordeal would keep him from tormenting Hideko for a time. Yet I couldn't leave him unaided. Stirring a self-serving compassion that saving him now might prove useful for crushing him later, I lifted the floorboard. What I'd assumed would be light proved deceptively heavy—even arms that took pride in their strength strained under its weight. Had his body been crushed beneath this mass, I imagined it would have been torn to shreds—yet it remained intact enough to require no gathering of scattered limbs. When I propped him up, his shoulders and hips showed signs of shattered bones with no apparent sensation left. Thinking water might revive him, I looked around and found a leather travel bag—whose owner I couldn't tell—spilled open with liquor inside. Snatching it up and opening it, I caught the scent of brandy. Pouring it into his mouth, he revived like a dead frog springing back to life.

In the midst of the chaos, with my strength alone I could do nothing more, but fortunately villagers from nearby came rushing over. Entrusting one of them to keep watch, I raced to Royston Town—not far off—to summon my carriage and a doctor. In any case, there was no choice but to transport this man by carriage to the nearest station with a stop. According to the doctor’s assessment, since his injuries were severe, he needed to be sent home immediately and given thorough treatment. But where was his home? I had already surmised it was likely the spider farm in Peyton, but just in case, I searched his belongings for a notebook or anything bearing his name—and found both a notebook and a business card. When I saw what was written on the card’s surface, I steeled myself. Even I felt my heart stir. Centered on the card was written "Dr. Anakawa Jinzou," while at the edge appeared "Peyton Insect Farm." This was none other than the master of that very insect farm—the Anakawa Jinzou for whom I had once addressed a letter to Madame Torai.

I promptly placed him in the carriage and took him to the station. Of course, this was after hearing the doctor say there was no problem. Since everything required considerable expense, I checked my wallet to see if I needed to request funds via telegraphic transfer—and to my relief, found it stuffed thick with five-yen bills. This would suffice. I would deliver Anakawa to the insect farm and see for myself the nest of venomous spiders said to devour humans. Doing so might take a day or two. At home, Uncle and Hideko were surely worried, likely assuming my disappearance was akin to O-Ura’s prior vanishing act. I first drafted a telegram addressed to Uncle, writing that I had urgent business in London and would return once matters were settled, urging him not to worry, then sent it off. Then, taking Anakawa with me, I boarded a first-class train bound for Royston Station.

Anakawa could barely manage to speak, and through his pain, he occasionally let slip words of “Thank you” directed at me. “We must help each other in adversity,” I replied, kindly stopping him by adding it would be better if he remained silent, as speaking would do him no good. He too seemed to find it preferable not to speak, and before long fell completely silent, closing his eyes as well. Like a nurse stationed near his head, I observed his condition while pondering various matters—how he found himself in dire straits despite having committed no major misdeeds of late, his clothing and other belongings somehow hinting at “financial hardship.” If he was indeed French as I surmised, his use of wretchedly cheap tobacco instead of finer varieties served as clearest evidence. And why did his name bear the title “Doctor”? This required no wonder—taking advantage of anonymity, he presumptuously adopted the title. The slightly cleverer villains among evildoers often use such intimidating titles through feigned authority. The train arrived at Peyton Station already past noon. With no choice but to hire another carriage to Anakawa’s house, I carried him into the waiting room before going out to summon one. When I stated our destination as the Insect Farm in this area, the coachman pulled a strange face and hesitantly asked, “Eh…the Insect Farm?” His expression seemed to ask suspiciously, “To such a dreadful place?”

Chapter Forty-Eight: The Crone's Face The coachman’s scowl upon hearing “Insect Farm” told me this was an ill-reputed household. Through my inquiries, I discovered its current master, Anakawa Jinzou, had arrived in this area six or seven years prior—yet no one knew his origins. Isolated far from town in this desolate stretch, people seemed content to leave him be.

However, the carriage was secured to go because I promised sufficient fare. The coachman muttered, “There are no passengers to pick up on the return from that desolate place. I must charge extra to make it worth my while.” In the carriage, I purchased several kinds of provisions to eat, had the coachman assist me in carefully loading Jinzou into the carriage, and proceeded gradually toward the spider farm to prevent the vehicle from jostling. It was indeed a desolate place. After leaving town behind, passing through fields, and pushing into a gloomy forest, we had traveled about five ri when we finally reached the spider farm. Looking around, amidst the luxuriantly overgrown grass lay remnants of ancient stone foundations—undoubtedly one of those dilapidated ruins that had surely once been a grand mansion. It seemed that after encountering a fire which left only a portion of the structure intact, they had repaired it as-is into a dwelling. Along the side of the house stood tall brick walls in varying states—some crumbled low while others still towered high. Though to my eyes, the conflagration must have occurred fifty to seventy years prior.

The current residence alone was quite spacious. Behind it lay mountains; to the left was a forest, and to the right, charred ruins that also gave way to woods. Given its remoteness from any village, it seemed even bandits might dwell there. A gate had been formed by piling up old burnt bricks haphazardly, its door tightly shut. Though one would think nobody would intrude upon such a house, a padlock secured it—I later learned this lock was meant less to keep outsiders out than to prevent those inside from escaping. Beyond the gate stood a crudely constructed fence of sparse logs—a barrier dogs or cats might slip through, but not humans.

When I pushed the gate and it wouldn’t open, I tried knocking lightly. From inside the carriage, Jinzou—who had remained silent until now—spoke up. I asked in return, “What is it?” to which he replied, “You cannot open it without this key.” He handed over a large iron key. Though his shoulders and hips were crushed, his right hand alone remained functional, allowing him to rummage through his satchel and retrieve items like this key himself. After all, whenever the master left the premises, he would lock the gate and depart with its key—rendering the house seemingly unguarded. But what if the interior is a hollow shell? I mused while preparing to enter. From within the carriage, Jinzou groaned again and called out to me: “Return that key once the gate is opened.” A man half-dead yet still meticulous—this severity must have arisen from some secret hidden within the house. I resolved not to leave until I uncovered it.

After returning the key and entering the gate, I found a summoning bell hung at the entrance with a small mallet attached. I took the mallet and rang the bell, but there was no response from within—only the sound of a dog barking somewhere. No matter how many times I struck it, nothing changed. When I returned to the carriage and questioned Jinzou, he—perhaps relieved at retrieving his key—lay limp with pain, barely managing to utter “The back… go to the back” while moving his jaw as if gesturing. Following his instruction, I circled around to the house’s rear entrance. Though this door too was shut, peering through the windowpane into the dimness revealed an indescribably grotesque old woman’s face. At first glance, she seemed closer to a beast than a human—I scrutinized her suspiciously—but of course she’d resemble an animal, for it was a dog! A breed rarely seen in this country but occasionally found in France: the Bordeaux lineage, they call it—massive-bodied with disproportionately large heads, said to be the most intelligent among large dogs. Yet however clever, leaving such a creature alone as guard seemed peculiar. Peering through the kitchen window again—there! There! Not a dog at all but a full human: a white-haired crone over seventy. Her face was truly fearsome—the dog I’d seen earlier seemed far more merciful by comparison—yet something about her features felt familiar. Someone I knew... Torai Fujin! Could this hag be Torai Fujin’s mother? Considering further—might Anakawa Jinzou also be this crone’s child, sibling to Madame? Though Jinzou’s face bore charm, when contorted in pain from his wounds, it resembled hers. If Jinzou inherited his father’s looks and Madame her mother’s, no wonder! Take two parts Madame’s face, two parts Jinzou’s pained grimace, two parts that dog’s visage—then add three parts miserly malice, and you’d have this crone’s countenance complete.

Chapter Forty-Nine: Walls, Pillars, and Ceilings I kept knocking on the windowpane and shouted at the crone, “Anakawa Jinzou’s been hurt—open this door!” She barely lifted her face in response before turning toward where the dog stood. Summoning the animal with a wave, she opened a door that seemed to lead deeper inside and vanished with feigned indifference. No matter how long I waited, she never reappeared. Furious at her dismissal, I stormed back to fetch Anakawa’s carriage from the gate and returned to the kitchen entrance. After telling the coachman we’d break down the door together, Anakawa stirred awake and rasped, “Lift that windowpane—the key’s on a table inside.” Following his words, I pried open the glass pane—only for his dog to burst out as if lying in wait. I raised my fists, certain it would attack me, but it streaked past without a glance toward its master’s carriage. Clambering through into a dim kitchen beyond, I froze at what greeted me: walls and pillars squirming restlessly like serpents beneath their surfaces.

I had never witnessed such a sight before—the surfaces of the walls and pillars all squirming restlessly, seemingly still yet not still at all. The beams stretching beneath the ceiling particularly resembled the undulating scales of some colossal serpent. Wondering if dizziness distorted my vision, I steadied myself against a table—only to feel something scuttle onto my hand. Brushing it off, I found a spider roughly the size of a two-sen copper coin. I pressed closer to the wall to investigate—only to find its entire surface covered in a thin copper mesh, within which swarmed hundreds of millions of spiders moving in regimented ranks. The walls themselves were utterly invisible, smothered beneath this living mass. Shelves and holes dotted the walls, but every crevice too was choked with spiders. Though the names “Insect Farm” and “Spider House” had prepared me somewhat, I never imagined they bred spiders to this extent—nor that they could appear so loathsome and terrifying. Of course, spiders are never pleasant to behold, but seeing one or two could never conjure the visceral revulsion of this army infesting every wall, ceiling, and corner of the house. A shudder ran from my scalp to my toes. Had I been a woman, I might have screamed and fainted—but as a man, I merely swayed, my legs giving out as I leaned again on the table. Yet even this table served as a spider’s pedestal: glass-lidded wooden boxes lined its surface, each partitioned to contain dozens of species writhing in sizes from tiny to monstrous—a macabre display case.

Unless I first thoroughly steadied my mind, I could not remain long in that room—though truth be told, the spiders showed no sign of breaking through the copper mesh to pursue me. As if fleeing, I exited and firmly shut the door behind me, then stood in the kitchen where the crone had been earlier. By now my eyes had grown so accustomed to the dimness that it no longer felt dark. Scanning every corner here, I found no trace of spiders—instead, my gaze fell upon the key I sought, still inserted in the door's lock. Likely the crone had retrieved it from the adjacent room and left it here. Her figure had vanished without a trace.

If I had no deeper purpose, I would never enter this house again—like Hideko, merely recalling this place would make me shudder. But I must enter again and again until I’ve absorbed its secrets into my very core. Knowing this house’s secrets will surely unveil Hideko’s own. With this resolve, I chanted inwardly, repeating it like a mantra—"What’s there to fear from mere spiders?"—then returned to the carriage and asked Anakawa Jinzou where his bedroom was. We needed to get him inside quickly.

“The bedroom is the second room on the second floor,” he answered, but moving this injured man upstairs was out of the question. I had to bring down a bed to somewhere on the lower floor and lay him there. After informing Jinzou of this plan, I entered the house once more. Surveying the area, I found—beyond the room where the dog had been—a staircase resembling a narrow back staircase. I climbed the stairs while checking if there were any spiders lurking in this area—a precaution that proved fortunate indeed. Had someone attempted to ascend without such vigilance, they would have met with an unimaginable disaster.

Chapter Fifty: The Ones Locked Away As I climbed while surveying my surroundings, midway up the staircase I noticed what appeared to be a hidden door in the side wall—could this be a secret passage leading to some clandestine chamber? Had its surface been uniformly soot-stained like the wall and kept closed, it might have escaped detection entirely. But left ajar, it caught my eye.

As I attempted to pass by the hidden door, someone inside hurled something resembling a black stone shard at me. Since I was already on high alert, I swiftly twisted my body and avoided injury—though upon later inspection, I realized how perilously close it had been: what appeared as a stone fragment was actually the head of an old hatchet. While I hesitated over who might have thrown it, the crone from before emerged from the concealed doorway clutching only an axe handle. She blocked the staircase with a posture threatening to strike anyone who approached, raising the haft as she shouted, “You shan’t enter here!” Her eyes darted toward another hidden door to the side—though no one had even attempted entry. Ah—now I understood! This crone was somewhat deranged, likely following Anakawa Jinzou’s daily orders to guard this passage. This meant secrets must lie concealed beyond that door. Yet now was not the time for investigation—first I had to subdue her. Steeling myself to endure three or four blows, I resolutely advanced—only for her to retreat into the hidden chamber with boyish agility.

I passed through into the second floor and went to what was supposedly Anakawa’s bedroom, only to find it equally disordered—two old bed frames surrounded by five or six scattered items like quilts, blankets, and nightclothes. Selecting two decent blankets and lifting them onto a bed frame proved unexpectedly heavy even for my considerable strength, though not impossible to carry downstairs. As I bent forward to hoist them, someone struck my head a solid blow from behind. Turning, I saw the crone already raising her axe handle to strike again. Seizing her withered, shriveled hand, I sharply rebuked her: “What are you doing? Do you take me for an enemy?” Staring intently at her face, she retorted in a childlike voice unbefitting her form: “Oh! You’re not Anakawa’s enemy?” Utter madness. I countered: “If I were an enemy, why would I have deliberately transported your gravely injured son here by carriage?” Startled, the crone cried, “Eh—Jinzou’s injured? He’s lying in that carriage?” and shook off my grip to rush downstairs. Even a madwoman’s maternal bond proved distinct—this confirmed she was Jinzou’s mother. Afterward, I dragged the bed frame, sliding it diagonally down the stairs, but glancing at the hidden door, I found it already shut, blending so seamlessly with the wall it was nearly indistinguishable. The madwoman’s wariness was remarkable—Well—the time to inspect that hidden door will come—I muttered, descending fully to search the corridors here and there until at last locating a suitable room. There, I completed preparations to lay Jinzou down—thankfully, no spiders I loathed were present. Then I returned to the carriage once more, pushed aside the dog and crone, and had the coachman assist me in carefully carrying Jinzou by his head and feet into the house. This meticulousness seemed to earn great trust from both the crone and the dog—they followed restlessly behind, wagging their tails gratefully (or in the crone’s case, her hands). After promptly placing Jinzou onto the bedstead, I paid the coachman his due fare above standard rates and instructed him to urgently send a doctor from Peyton City before dismissing him. Then, thinking it best to assert authority over the crone and dog alike, I took a seat by Jinzou’s head with an almost masterful air. Jinzou, relieved to have reached home, fell soundly asleep. The crone simply stared vacantly at his slumbering face, while the dog—contrary to its fierce nature—nuzzled its head against my knee.

“Ah, you’re not Jinzou’s enemy,” the crone observed. “If you were, this dog wouldn’t nuzzle up like this.” I quipped lightly, “Who’d even *be* an enemy of Jinzou?” “But Master says everyone comin’ here’s enemies!” she retorted, her gaze darting. “None get in ’cept the locked-away ones.” “‘Locked away’?” I pressed, keeping my tone casual. “You mean the spiders?” “What—the ones *above*!” She tilted her head toward the ceiling, though the gesture clarified nothing. “The locked ones don’t come by daylight like you. They’re brought at midnight—covered carriages—by Jinzou or the Medical Scholar.” *Medical Scholar?* Jinzou styled himself “Doctor,” so this must be an accomplice. “Those brought here—men or women?” “No women since that pretty young thing came.” Her milky eyes widened with remembered awe. “Face like a noblewoman’s! But when they carried her down, pale as death—I thought her a corpse!” Madness, of course—yet even delirium holds kernels of truth. Could that beauty have been Hideko? Had she been hauled here years ago under night’s cover? Or was this O-Ura’s fate? Human nature bends all mysteries toward known faces. “Men kept coming after, though?” “Oh yes! Last year, year before—whenever wheels crunch gravel, it’s boys.” However old these events, their purpose eluded me—midnight carriages, confined children—each clue deepening the void where reason should be.

Chapter Fifty-One: The Sound Above the Ceiling It would be tedious to transcribe every deranged word uttered by the crone here, but among them were mentions of the "Medical Scholar" two or three times, along with talk of Jinzou digging holes beneath trees in the garden at midnight to bury something. When I pressed her specifically on what had been buried, it seemed disturbingly akin to having murdered and buried people—and moreover, such incidents appeared to have occurred not once, but two or three times. If I could fully grasp even one of the secrets here, it would be tantamount to seizing control of his fate—yet how vexing that I still couldn’t comprehend it! Now, there remained nothing but to open that hidden door I’d found earlier and inspect its interior. Within must lie either the secrets themselves or evidence that would unveil them. I had to find a way inside.

Even as I thought this and tried to elicit the crone’s story, she was not entirely mad. She existed in a liminal state between madness and sanity, occasionally experiencing moments where her mind felt nearly as clear as an ordinary person’s. According to what I later heard, she had fallen from the second floor years prior, striking her head and plunging into complete madness for a time—though recently her condition had somewhat alleviated, allowing sporadic moments of mental clarity. But such details mattered little—all I needed was to seize the secret throttling Anakawa Jinzou’s throat.

After the conversation lapsed into silence, I heard an odd, shuffling echo from above—as if someone were moving stealthily across the ceiling. If that were true, infiltrating that hidden door had become even more urgent, for gaining entry might lead me directly above this very room. I barely had time to think before tilting my head back to stare at the ceiling. “What was that sound just now?” The words seemed to electrify the crone’s shadowed mind. Her demeanor twisted abruptly as she hissed, “You don’t recognize that sound? Then you’re Jinzou’s enemy! An enemy! You know nothing of this house—hearing without understanding! Master Jinzou said all ignorant of our affairs are enemies—never to be let inside! Sweet words to lower our guard, you schemer—!” Her accusations sharpened like knives, forcing me to counter, “Why would anyone oppose one who’s done no wrong?” “Lies!” she spat. “You interrogate him, thinking him wicked—but Jinzou does no evil! He lives honestly, like any man—breeding spiders for trade. What for? To sell! Few share this craft—we thrive without sin!”

Her rapid explanation felt neither fully sane nor entirely mad. But what commercial purpose could spider breeding serve? This too I later understood: brewers would release spiders into storage rooms to make wine bottles appear aged. Once let loose, the arachnids would spin webs over every vessel until after a year they resembled century-old relics. Buyers would readily accept them as decades-old vintages or cellar treasures preserved for hundreds of years. Beyond this, there was significant demand for spiders in storage vaults of all kinds. Moreover, around that time methods for spinning spider silk had been invented, with many now testing and implementing them—a development that brought buyers from France and America flocking, creating a thriving export trade. Thus spider cultivation became viable commerce. Yet Anakawa Jinzou’s purpose extended beyond profit; his primary aim was breeding reviled insects to deter visitors from his domain.

Leaving that aside, the crone continued speaking—at times defensively, at others attacking me—until her feeble mind seemed to tire. Gradually, her words lost coherence, and finally she muttered, “Oh… I don’t know what I was saying,” lapsing back into madness after a moment’s bewilderment. Witnessing this, I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of pity. There was no hope of gaining anything useful by questioning the crone again. I remained silent at Jinzou’s bedside, but though his eyes were open, he was muttering deliriously—perhaps feverish from his wounds. The doctor from Peyton City, whom I had sent the coachman to fetch earlier, should have arrived by now, yet still he did not come. Before long, the day had grown dark, and I had grown somewhat hungry. I had to devise some plan—but there was no other option but to think. The only option was for me to go to Peyton City myself and return. There was no guarantee whether the doctor had even been contacted, given I’d only relied on the coachman. *Well, if it’s my own legs, I can make a quick run of it.* Resolving to go myself, I gave Jinzou’s care instructions to the old woman as one would to a lucid person, then stepped outside. Autumn weather proved fickle—raindrops fell sporadically, and a wind had begun to rise.

The darkness was profound, but the path was not so intricate as to risk losing my way. Hurrying onward for about one ri, I reached a low hill extending from the woods—a place we had crossed by carriage earlier, too modest to truly merit being called a hill. As I began ascending from this side, someone approached from the opposite direction, just reaching its highest point. Peering up from below, they appeared to be carrying something resembling a bag. His appearance was unmistakably that of a doctor—no one but a physician would venture to this area after nightfall. In that instant, an idea struck me. I waited until he drew near, then called out from my side: “Aren’t you the Medical Scholar?” I was testing whether the Medical Scholar mentioned by the crone and this doctor might be one and the same. In response to my call, he asked, “Oh—who calls for me?”

Chapter Fifty-Two: The Hole Beneath the Tree If this fellow was indeed the Medical Scholar—the accomplice of Anakawa Jinzou, that self-styled doctor—I needed to keep him unsuspecting while probing his background for future advantage. In that critical moment, I settled on a plan. Feigning nonchalance, I gave a false name and explained how I’d coincidentally shared a carriage with Anakawa, tended to his injuries, delivered him home, and sent for a doctor—but since the physician was taking too long, I intended to visit the clinic myself before departing. He countered sharply: “But why address me as ‘Medical Scholar’?” How peculiar. Had he been publicly known by that title, he wouldn’t have questioned it—but since “Medical Scholar” seemed a private codename between him and Anakawa, my use of it clearly unnerved him. With practiced ease, I deflected: “An odd old woman at his house mentioned expecting someone called ‘Medical Scholar.’ That’s why I asked.” He nodded warily. “Ah, so it was her?” “I merely addressed you as she instructed,” I pressed. “Though you don’t exactly wear the title on your sleeve.” Leaning closer, I added: “Will you return with me to tend him?” “I must,” I replied with feigned reluctance, “though pressing matters demand my departure. As an amateur, I’d only hinder your work.” “You’ve left no belongings there?” His eyes narrowed. “None—everything’s at the station.” I manufactured urgency: “Perishable items can’t wait.” “Quite right.” He straightened his bag. “I’ll handle the patient.” With curt professionalism, he continued uphill.

I immediately considered following him back discreetly, but since there were some other preparations to make, I instead headed straight to Peyton City. First, I had a meal; second, I purchased felt shoes to muffle footsteps when infiltrating houses; third, I bought a small knife equipped with various tools as precaution. The thought struck me—perhaps I truly was a man who could play either thief or detective as circumstances demanded—and I found this darkly amusing even in my solitude. But idle musings were an unaffordable luxury. I immediately turned back toward the insectarium, for my true objective lay unquestionably within that hidden door of his.

I arrived back at Yōchūen around midnight. Had I known beforehand how dreadful that hidden door’s interior truly was, I might never have mustered the courage to return—such is what they call “the blind snake fears no pit.” Ignorance alone emboldens. Upon arriving, I found the light rain from evening had ceased, leaving only wind sounds in the silent woods. Whether the Medical Scholar had departed remained unclear, but knowing my way already, I circled to the back entrance. Peering inside, I saw the kitchen door through which we’d carried Jinzou still stood open. Though I’d initially planned to enter through a window as before, it proved unnecessary—donning felt-soled shoes, I slipped through the doorway instead. No one appeared within sight, yet voices leaked from that dreadful spider chamber, and lamplight seeped through its keyhole. Pressing my ear to listen, I realized the Medical Scholar still lingered—having finished tending the injured man, he now conversed with the crone in this room. “A nasty wound indeed!” came his voice, punctuated by laughter. “Had we not treated him promptly, we’d be digging another hole beneath the pine tree by now—Ahahaha!” From these words, it became clear that digging holes beneath the garden trees was indeed for burying corpses—exactly as I had imagined. If things went awry, might I not become one of those buried instead? How perverse!

Chapter Fifty-Three: I Forgot I could hear their conversation though of course couldn't see them. What were the Medical Scholar and crone doing? Were they drinking cheap sake while talking? If possible, I wanted to quietly open the door and peek inside—but being caught would spell disaster. If they noticed me and came out holding an oil lantern, there was no telling what might happen. The Medical Scholar continued: "Injured at such a critical time! From what I hear, Jinzou went to meet some beauty and his train derailed on the return trip. Did he extract secrets from her mouth? With the Doctor's skills, he wouldn't return empty-handed. If he heard anything, I want him to share it quickly—but all he does is mutter nonsense. Useless to question him. Old woman—surely he told you something about that beauty?" The "beauty" was undoubtedly Hideko. That her enemies would be here in this place, orchestrating such elaborate schemes—it was truly beyond belief. Yet precisely because I'd come to this unexpected place through unexpected circumstances could I learn such secrets. Like striking a mineral vein, I had to trace this seam wherever it led and excavate every last ounce of ore.

The crone asked in her vacant voice, “Who’s this ‘beauty’? Did th’ boy take a mistress or somethin’?” The Medical Scholar clicked his tongue irritably. “Ahhh—yer too far gone in senility! ‘Fore ya cracked yer skull, ya were ten times sharper’n any young lass—now ya ain’t got a tenth o’ Madam Torai’s wits.” At last I understood—Madam Torai was this crone’s daughter an’ Jinzou’s sister or half-sister. They seemed near th’ same age, but Madam Torai like as not th’ elder. Women—even at eighty—still primp t’ look young, so when a lass seems a man’s age, she’s sure t’ be his senior. Th’ crone pressed, “But didn’t ya say Jinzou went t’ meet some beauty?” “Where’s this ‘beauty’ from, eh?” “Gah—I’ll jog yer memory! Years back—stormy night—a carriage came t’ this house, aye?” “Hmm...carriage?” “First th’ driver stepped out,” said th’ Scholar. “When he doffed his fur collar—weren’t no ordinary driver.” “Oho! ‘Twas you all along!” “Y’remember that much! I played coachman fer this scheme—puttin’ in sweat an’ tears! If we botch this after comin’ so far—who’ll pay? Now—who came out next from that carriage?” “I got it! A beauty! Though ya told someone ‘bout this earlier—I clean forgot.” “Y-YA TOLD SOMEONE?! Damn fool—lettin’ secrets slip! That’s why I warned Jinzou ne’er t’ leave ya alone! Who knows what drivel ya’d babble t’ whom! Did ya sneak out whilst he was gone?!” “Jinzou barred th’ gate proper—couldn’t leave if I tried.” “Then who’d ya tell?” “Forgot.” “Yer not th’ forgettin’ sort—‘less y’ve turned coachman yerself!” “Oh aye! Now I recall! Told that pretty lad what brought Jinzou!” “That fella what hailed me? Hmm...Might he be a detective? Common peddler’d shrug off what he heard. But tell me—did he pester ya with questions?” “Forgot.”

That she had forgotten was a stroke of luck for me. Had she remembered and told everything exactly as it was, this Medical Scholar—so attuned to wickedness—would never have taken me for an ordinary young man. “Well, fine—you’re so obviously deranged in everyone’s eyes that no one would heed a word you say anyway,” said the Medical Scholar in a tone of forced reassurance. After a pause, he pressed on: “Now, old woman—returning to our earlier topic—who carried that beauty out from the carriage?”

If this concerned Hideko’s past, my body turned to stone, my heart pounding as though it might burst my chest at what revelations might follow. “I forgot who it was.” “Wasn’t it Madam Torai?” The crone cried, “You! It was you! She was my daughter! Oh, now I remember everything—you were the one who insisted we must first put a mask on her!” “Ah—when you remember, you dredge up needless things. Best forget such matters.” The crone pressed, “And when I saw that beauty’s left hand—Medical Scholar, wasn’t my wisdom praised by all present then? About that left hand—have you forgotten?” Now that I stood poised to hear Hideko’s deepest secrets from these villains’ own lips, I froze rigidly, unconsciously shifting my weight—though unaware if I’d made any sound. Yet the dog within detected it instantly, emitting an uncanny warning bark. The Medical Scholar remarked, “How strange for this dog to bark now. Old woman—did you hear anything?” “No.” He began rising as he added, “Though truly, there’s no one listening outside…”

Chapter Fifty-Four: Human or Creature?

I truly thought I had failed. If the Medical Scholar were to stand up and come this way, I would have no choice but to hide in the shadows—but if he were to bring a lantern, that would be the end of it. After going to such lengths to come this far, to think I’d be exposed at this critical moment—truly, regret pierced me to the marrow of my bones, but there was nothing to be done.

But then, from inside, the old woman’s voice could be heard. "Who’s there?… When Jinzou isn’t around, this dog sometimes makes such noises. It must’ve heard that thing moving in the room upstairs." What on earth could "that thing" be? Even in this critical moment, I couldn’t suppress my suspicions. The Medical Scholar muttered, "Hmm—that thing again. Making moves, is it? Damned nuisance. Best tighten the iron chains properly." Having said this, they seemed to stop coming out—thank goodness, thank goodness, I was truly saved. Before such an incident could recur, I had to quickly slip into the target hidden door.

Even as I thought this, the Medical Scholar’s words—“That thing again” and “Tighten the iron chains”—lingered in my ears. The words struck me as eerily unsettling, but I told myself their meaning would become clear in due time. Tiptoeing away from the spot, I headed toward the staircase I’d noted earlier—only to find the surroundings plunged into utter darkness. I didn’t think there’d be anything to trip over, but I had no choice but to advance by touch. Perhaps because it had been bright during the day, I hadn’t realized just how vast this space was. Though the staircase seemed agonizingly far as I groped forward, I somehow managed to reach it unharmed.

Once again groping and tiptoeing up the stairs, I felt along the wall where I believed the spot to be. The hidden door did exist, but it was tightly shut and immovable like a rock. There remained no choice but to strike a match and investigate—though doing so here was perilous indeed. If by chance the dog, the old woman, or the Medical Scholar were to emerge into the hallway, it would spell disaster. My heart pounded. When I thought of this, I realized I was by no means cut out to be a thief—it was only for my beloved Hideko's sake that I resorted to such acts. Had it been for greed or money, I would have sooner chosen to starve to death.

Trembling with fear, I struck a match. Then, upon examining the hidden door, I found a keyhole but no key inserted. Though I had intended to pick the lock if necessary and had even purchased a small knife equipped with various tools for that purpose, I simply couldn’t muster the courage to attempt picking it open in such a perilous place. In any case, I first needed to hide myself in a safe spot in the hallway where no one would easily spot me even if they came out—and for that, ascending to the second floor and entering what had once been Jinzou’s bedroom was paramount.

Having resolved myself, I climbed to the second floor and entered Jinzou’s vacant bedroom. In the pitch darkness, I first stroked my chest to calm my nerves—but no matter how I turned it over in my mind, opening that hidden door remained utterly impossible. He must have locked it from the inside. If it was indeed secured from within, there had to be another entrance on the exterior. Very well—I would abandon the front approach and search for that back passage instead.

I emerged into the second-floor corridor and proceeded deeper into the darkness, still groping along with shuffling steps. Here and there I struck matches—truly a bizarre structure! Only a house built by some long-ago noble with sensibilities far removed from ordinary logic could contain such strangeness. Beneath a single roof divided by this corridor lay both second and third floors. At the corridor's far end, turning left revealed a low staircase configured to ascend to the third floor. Climbing this would likely lead me toward the hidden door. Depending on how things unfolded, it might even bring me one floor above where the secret lay. But there was no way to know without trying—so I ascended to the third floor. Here too, lining both sides of the corridor were several rooms with closed doors. When I tried turning their handles, every last one was locked—save for a single exception. Upon opening that door and peering inside, spider webs draped thickly over my face.

This too appeared to be another loathsome spider room. I hastily shut the door and proceeded straight down the hallway, where at the dead end stood a closed door—fortunately, its keyhole was fitted with a key. I took it, opened the door, and found it configured to descend; upon going down, it indeed appeared to be a mezzanine—no matter how I considered it, this had to correspond to the interior of that hidden door.

Yes! Yes! The secret must be at hand now. I struck another match and saw nothing but a wide wooden-floored hallway, with what appeared to be a room a short distance ahead—its entrance door conspicuously new. This must be it, I thought as I stood before it and pressed my ear against the door. Before long, I heard a faint yet unmistakably strange sound from within. Whether human or beast I could not yet discern, but it was a long-drawn groan—so dreadful it defied all description. All I could do was shudder in horror.

Chapter Fifty-Five: A Presence in the Darkness

My greatest oversight was having failed to purchase and bring candles. At times like these, nothing proves more unreliable than matchlight—it may illuminate a small area briefly, but once extinguished, the ensuing darkness feels all the more profound. If only I had concealed even one candle in my satchel—what salvation that might have brought! Yet compounding my unease was the wretched paucity of matches remaining to me. A count revealed a mere dozen left. With twelve matches, could I possibly lay bare the great secret of this pitch-dark spider den?

Yet one thing was fortunate—the key remained inserted in the door’s keyhole. If I hesitated, my fear would only grow and sap my courage. Thus, without overthinking, I decided it best to charge forward with eyes closed. Immediately, I opened that door and slipped inside. The door was remarkably heavy—one might mistake it for a prison gate—and beyond it lay what appeared to be a corridor stretching briefly ahead, though the space was exceedingly narrow; two people could never walk abreast. I walked about three ken through this cramped passage, wedged in as I was, and finally emerged into a wider area. This must undoubtedly be the room. The voice—unrecognizable as either beast or human—that had cried out must have been the doing of some inhabitant of this chamber.

This room must undoubtedly be directly above where the Medical Scholar was speaking with the old woman. The noise described as "It’s moving" must also have originated from this room. The true nature of that thing would also become clear here. I emerged halfway from the narrow space to survey the situation—the room reeked of filth, yet no sound could be heard. "This is it," I thought, striking a match. But before the flame could catch, a black shape suddenly leapt from the darkness to my right, grazed past me, and vanished into the left shadows. My match was extinguished. Worse still, when that thing forcefully brushed against my hand, it knocked the crucial box of matches from my grasp.

In the darkness, with my matches—as precious as life itself—knocked from my grasp along with their box, there was nothing I could do. I was truly at a loss; all I could do was hunch over and grope across the floor. Unless I found that matchbox, I couldn’t move an inch. As I gingerly groped about with my fingertips, what felt like something clinging damply turned out to be floor dust—if I were to exaggerate, perhaps piled an inch or two deep. That anything—human or beast—could survive in such a place defied belief. The matchbox might have been buried in that dust or perhaps scattered elsewhere—nowhere within my reach. Even as I searched, I sensed someone observing my movements from the darkness—not only could I hear their breath as clearly as if cupped in my palm, but I even fancied feeling the warm gust of their exhalation brush against my cheek.

I had finally located the matchbox by groping around, but to my dismay, its contents were entirely scattered and empty—I despaired utterly at this. In dust thick enough to bury even the box itself, how could I possibly find those slender matches? Yet I couldn't stop searching. Now driven like a madman, I pressed forward, feeling left and right until my hands found that mysterious creature once more. It appeared to be crawling on all fours, yet wasn't a beast—it seemed human-like. Whether from cold or terror, it shivered violently; though the season wasn't yet cold enough to warrant such trembling, this could only mean it was utterly terrified of me.

Thinking this, I felt somewhat more courageous. "If it fears me, then there’s no need for me to fear it—in fact, it would be best to speak up and reassure it," I said in a low voice: "Look here, there’s nothing to fear from me. I’m not your enemy but an ally—I’ve come to help." Yet there was no sign of comprehension. Upon closer inspection, this might not be human after all—perhaps still some beast—so I groped around once more and confirmed it wore a garment; though clad in rags, its back bore a large, hard lump-like protrusion. Wondering if this could be some sort of hunchback, I felt the lump again—when suddenly he shoved me away.

Startled by the unexpected motion, I instinctively thrust my hand behind me—and there, blessedly, beneath my fingers lay a single match. Immediately picking it up and striking it against my sleeve, the light revealed to my eyes a pair of glowing orbs. Next came the sight of white teeth exposed and gleaming from a large mouth—human it may be, but an exceedingly grotesque specimen of humanity. Ah, if only I had one more match—just as this thought crossed my mind, rough footsteps echoed from behind, and someone came stomping in. Knowing capture would spell disaster if discovered, I immediately blew out the still-burning match and whirled around—only to see the Medical Scholar holding a hand candle enter through the narrow entrance, followed closely by the old woman.

Chapter Fifty-Six: The ABCs of Strategy The Medical Scholar had already traversed the narrow corridor and now stood fully revealed at the entrance to this room. From under his arm peered the old woman, watching intently; in his left hand he held a candle, in his right a drawn longsword that gleamed coldly. Did he mean to kill me? Yet when he saw me, his expression betrayed shock—he clearly hadn't anticipated finding an outsider in this chamber. Having heard unexplained noises, he must have assumed the room's usual occupant was causing trouble and had come brandishing his blade to intimidate them into submission. Observing his astonished, suspicious countenance, I confirmed my earlier deduction held true.

After staring at me for some time—perhaps intimidated by my guarded posture—he withdrew into the narrow entryway. The moment he stirred, it seemed he was prepared to flee. Indeed, when I considered it, it made perfect sense. No matter how villainous a medical scholar might be, such men lack the resolve to directly engage in physical combat. In situations that endanger their own lives, they inevitably hesitate—especially upon finding me alone and sneaking into such a room. Unable to fathom what manner of reckless fool I might be, it seemed he feared me far more than I feared him.

When the inhabitant of this room caught sight of the Medical Scholar, they cowered entirely and shrank back behind me. Even amidst this chaos, I managed to discern a few details by the light of the hand candle held by the Medical Scholar. The inhabitant was unquestionably human—not a beast—and appeared to have been chained, with lengths of chain lying nearby. But those chains had been severed. Now I understood why the Medical Scholar had earlier muttered about needing to tighten them. Before long, the Medical Scholar—his face still etched with suspicion—turned to the old woman and said, “Oh ho! There’s a gentleman like this here!” "Gentleman" was an excessively polite term—though this seemed merely his professional habit of addressing everyone as such. From behind the Medical Scholar, the old woman interjected, “Wait! Let me call Grimm to tear him apart!” even as she made to leave immediately. Grimm was evidently that dog’s name, and the prospect of fighting for my life against a dog—and not just any dog, but the fiercest of fierce Bordeaux breeds—was far from appealing. The Medical Scholar halted her, saying, “Now, old woman—do you know this gentleman?”

“Ah, this is the person who brought my son here by carriage earlier.” “Oh, you.” “Then, it was you who addressed me as ‘Medical Scholar’ earlier?” he said, directing this solely at me. I replied courteously and solemnly, “Yes, it was I.” “Ha ha ha ha! You claimed you had to go to the station to retrieve your luggage, but this is no station. Your ‘business’ here must be quite significant indeed!” He spoke in a tone that carried light banter with an air of camaraderie rather than mockery. This too must have been a tone he had grown accustomed to through his usual line of work. “To speak frankly, I deceived you in order to sneak into this house.”

He suddenly turned serious. “Ah, so you made me drop my guard—that’s the ABCs of strategy. But why did you want to sneak into this house? Are you a detective?” “No.” “I see—not a detective. Your manner of speech makes that clear. So you’re just a gentleman then? What business does a mere gentleman have sneaking into someone else’s home—a thief perhaps?” “For now, you may think of it that way.” “Anyway, since I’ve already seen a fair amount after sneaking in, I’ve achieved part of my objective.” “Now that I’m leaving this place with the inhabitant of this room, step aside and let us through.”

I was fully resolved to leave with this inhabitant. Though I could not determine who they were or why they were kept here, seeing that chains had been fastened to restrain them made it certain they were being held against their will. Thus, taking them away would be tantamount to rescuing them. The Medical Scholar replied pensively, “No, of course we have no right to obstruct your departure—you may leave as you please. However, I am not the master of this house; I am merely an acquaintance of his. As you know, the master lies unconscious from grave injuries. When he regains his senses, if he demands to know why I allowed a gentleman who sneaked into another’s home to leave unchallenged, I must at least provide an answer.” “What response should I give then? This much I must hear from you beforehand.” “At that time—well then, I’ll leave behind one of my business cards. You can simply tell him to come inquire of me personally.” “Then I shall leave this hand candle here, so I ask that you depart before too much time elapses.” “I’ll take your business card here below, as there’s one more thing I wish to say at that time.”

Having said this, he calmly withdrew through the narrow exit. The old woman wrung her hands in agitation. "You—why are you letting that sort of person walk away?" "You might be content with this, but what horrors might Jinzou inflict on me later?" Her complaints came in relentless succession. Yet it proved futile—the Medical Scholar dragged her out regardless.

Just as I was thinking this, the heavy thud of the entrance door being shut from outside reached my ears. Oh no, this was bad! I was thoroughly trapped by the Medical Scholar.

Chapter Fifty-Seven: Afterwards, True Darkness

Hearing the sound of the door closing, I jolted in alarm—had I been utterly outwitted by the Medical Scholar? Thinking this, I dashed down the narrow corridor to the doorway, but alas—it was already too late. From outside, they had already barred the door. Looking back now, I was truly foolish; when the Medical Scholar spoke in an unexpectedly meek tone about not hindering my departure, I should have discerned his ulterior motives. It wasn’t that I remained entirely unsuspecting—I simply hadn’t grasped the full extent of their cunning. Delighted they had left the hand candle behind, I thought to examine the room by its light—no, I didn’t even have time to properly look—and while hastily glancing around, I had already fallen into this predicament.

Since the Medical Scholar and old woman still seemed to be outside the door, I knocked and shouted, “Hello! Why are you closing this door?” The Medical Scholar pressed his mouth near the keyhole. “Why, since you seem so fond of that room’s occupant,” he sneered with a laugh that rattled through the wood, “I thought I’d let you live together awhile!” My voice sharpened until it could have pierced stone. “You people are utterly shameless—locking someone in a room like this!” “Indeed,” came the reply, “sneaking into houses at night and locking doors are two sides of the same coin. We’re equally rude.” “This is cowardly beyond measure.” “If you find fault with my actions,” I snapped, “accuse me openly.” “I don’t flee or hide. Summon me to court, send a duel challenge—I’ll answer anything!” “You must duel splendidly,” the Medical Scholar taunted. “I couldn’t possibly face you now. Let’s revisit this in four or five days.” “First endure that room awhile! However strong, you’ll kneel to hunger soon enough. When weakness bleeds the fight from you—” his voice dripped mock concern “—I’ll return to hear your thoughts at leisure.”

Could there be another such lazy, cunning, and infuriating scheme? To starve me into weakness before facing me—"Are you saying you'll keep me locked in this room for four or five days?" "Yes—we've no choice but to lodge you here until your resistance fades." "In truth, your deeds surpass human wickedness! How despicable! How cowardly—to trick me into complacency by feigning noninterference, then suddenly imprison me here!" "Ah, but these are the ABCs of strategy you yourself taught me." "Wasn't it you who claimed station business to lull my vigilance, then infiltrated this house? A pity I couldn't take your card then—how my mind raced to seize it undetected!" "No matter—once your strength fails, I'll simply search your garments for it." "After all, this 'ABCs of strategy' you prize proves quite potent when applied." I stamped my foot in vexation. "Enough! I'll endure no more insolence! Answer plainly—will you open this door or not?" "Will you open it or not?" "In one word—no," declared the Medical Scholar with venomous emphasis. "Then I'll break it down from within!" I countered. "Do by all means try." Resolved to dash myself to pieces if need be, I hurled my full weight against the door—yet it stood firm as stonework. Though the impact rang loud, it never budged. From without came the Medical Scholar's jeer: "My, what vigor! Persist—the door may yet yield!"

Even though I knew it was futile, being jeered at like this made it impossible to simply give up. Resolved to charge once more to startle them, I braced myself—and in that instant, the room began to darken. I had not noticed until this moment that the short candle in the hand candle left by the Medical Scholar had gradually burned down and finally extinguished itself. “Ah, what a regrettable thing I’ve done,” I thought, though even now my remorse was unbearable yet unavoidable. The Medical Scholar, having apparently peered through the keyhole and discerned this situation, declared dismissively: “Now, old woman, let’s go. You see, I left the hand candle in the room to lull them into complacency—I thought it best to toy with them until the candle burned out, but there’s no need for further games now.” With that, he made to depart entirely. Just how far did his wicked cunning reach, this villain? He was no man to be finished off by someone like me. Though utterly dumbfounded, I kept shouting, “Wait! Wait!” But he paid no heed and departed. Afterwards, it was as silent as deep mountains, and then true darkness.

Chapter Fifty-Eight: The Eyes in the Portrait

I had met with a cruel fate—locked in a pitch-black room where nothing could now be done. No matter how I turned it over in my mind—considering this approach and that—not a single plan emerged. Am I to starve to death here like this? Yes—there was no alternative. I would remain a prisoner in this room until starvation claimed me. The vile Medical Scholar’s purpose in confining me was clear: he believed I had uncovered this house’s secrets and discerned their crimes, leaving him no choice but to erase me from this world. This went beyond mere intimidation or empty threats—he was resolutely determined to take my life. No other interpretation seemed possible.

Is there no one who will help me? No—there’s no way anyone would. No one knew I was in this house. In the dead of night, I had slipped out of my home without anyone’s knowledge, though I did send Hideko a telegram from Lawston Station along the way stating I was going to London on business. If I didn’t return in a few days, they would surely search London—but if I wasn’t there, they could look no further. The people of this house treated murder as their trade—they wouldn’t hesitate for an instant to kill me alone. I knew from what the old woman had said about digging holes beneath garden trees—they must have killed countless others in this room and buried them on the grounds. Even if I met the same fate, who could possibly know? I would simply end up being regarded as someone who had gone missing from London.

It was truly agonizing—so regrettable. Even if I didn’t dread my own death, what terrible fate would befall Hideko afterward? There was no protector besides myself; my uncle might as well not have existed—he was of no use at all in times of crisis. Depending on circumstances, Hideko might already have been feeling uneasy that I was absent at this crucial time. O-Ura had gone missing just a few days ago—if I were to vanish as well now, how would the world speak of Ghost Tower? Uncle might also have found it unbearable to stay and moved elsewhere.

But thinking fruitlessly would solve nothing—I had to find a way to escape. As long as breath remained in me, I needed to seek an escape route—yet in this darkness where I couldn't even discern the room's layout, there was no way to pursue such a path. The darkness wouldn't last forever—five or six hours would bring dawn on its own—but escaping by daylight would prove even more difficult. Then again, perhaps I'd have to remain in this room until tomorrow night. It was utterly infuriating. Even if I tried sleeping until dawn, I couldn't bring myself to lie down in this dust-choked room. If only there were a bed somewhere... No matter—I'd grope through the darkness instead. By exploring, I might at least grasp the room's structure; even without a place to rest, I had to find an escape sooner rather than later. Thinking this, I felt my way back to the original chamber and—ignoring its occupant—methodically probed the walls. One side held what seemed an old fireplace where flames once burned. Windows stood barred by thick iron rods set vertically—this might have been a fine parlor once, but now it was indistinguishable from a prison cell. The window bars were so sturdy they might have withstood a bear's weight.

On the opposite wall, unlike the entrance, there was something resembling an ordinary closed door that might be an exit. Ah—this was not merely a single chamber, but rather several rooms connected to form a suite of chambers. Perhaps the next rooms—a living space and bedroom—had once been properly furnished. When I opened its door and found the lock removed, it clearly served as the next chamber. Stepping inside and feeling around, I discovered this space differed from the previous one, containing various fixtures—a closet, shelves, and what seemed like a vanity. Then on one side—oh!—there was a bed. Wondering if there might be yet another room beyond, I found another doorway firmly shut. Further probing would prove futile. Taking what solace I could in the bed's presence, I resigned myself to sleeping until dawn.

The bed did not seem as soiled as I had feared. The musty odor of dust no longer registered in my nostrils, now accustomed to it, but there lingered another scent—something unfamiliar. Perhaps a woman had stayed here recently, leaving traces of cosmetics behind? It was not unpleasant; less a stench than a delicate fragrance. The presence of a vanity confirmed a woman had once inhabited this space. This realization eased my mind somewhat, and I climbed onto the bed. Though faint, the scent exerted an uncanny effect on my nerves. This fragrance was undoubtedly the same as the scent Hideko always favored. Whenever I entered her room, I would feel my spirits lift—this had surely been why. Could this room have been Hideko’s own quarters? Not only had various clues suggested she had stayed in this house, but earlier that evening, when the old woman had mentioned a "beauty" several times, she must have meant Hideko. If so, then this bed might well be where she once slept.

I took great comfort in this alone and unwittingly fell asleep. Though it felt as if I had only slept for twenty or thirty minutes, when I awoke, bright morning sunlight was already streaming through the cracks of the old window shutters—to me, it felt like a rebirth. With lightened spirits, I climbed down from the bed and surveyed the room. Seeing the few small furnishings within, it seemed some secrets regarding Hideko’s circumstances still lingered here. However, what drew my attention more than any of these was a strange portrait prominently affixed to the wall near the bed’s pillow—no, it was the eyes of that portrait.

Chapter Fifty-Nine: Resident of the Next Room The portrait was neither particularly old nor splendid by any means. It had likely been painted by some nameless artisan working freelance. Yet its size bordered on wasteful for the silk canvas—depicting a standing woman with no remarkable features save for the eyes. Those eyes emitted an unnervingly lifelike gleam that seemed to gaze down at me. While her face and form lacked vitality, the eyes alone possessed an incongruous vividness that defied their painted nature.

In my current circumstances, I shouldn't have been paying attention to some unknown woman's portrait—yet somehow those eyes alone preoccupied me. Suspecting I might still be half-asleep, I rubbed my own eyes in doubt. When I looked up again, the portrait's eyes had completely lost their vitality—now devoid of meaning or light, they were exactly the dull, artless eyes one would expect from such a painting. I couldn't reconcile this at all. Perhaps I'd been drowsy and misseen them earlier—yet I felt certain these painted eyes held some secret. I refused to believe it was merely my own misperception.

But investigating that would have to wait—my immediate priority was to see last night’s occupant of the next room. Who was he? What did he look like? With these thoughts, I went to inspect the adjoining chamber. There, hunched in a far corner just as I’d imagined from the night before, was a stooped figure—no, not quite a man yet, but a boy of fifteen or sixteen. His filth was beyond description: hair matted with grime, uncut for who knows how long, sprawled wildly like the fur of an orangutan across his face, his skin nearly soot-stained gray. That he could remain alive in such unsanitary conditions defied comprehension. I tried calling out in various ways, but he appeared to be a complete imbecile and did not utter a single word in reply, merely wearing an expression almost identical to that of an exotic animal peering curiously at a human face from within its cage. Why would they hide someone like this? The probable reason was that he had been born into a family of considerable wealth—his parents could neither keep such a child at home for appearances’ sake nor risk exposure by placing him in a charitable institution, so they had likely paid to have him entrusted to this house. Indeed, this house subsisted on people’s secrets—they took custody of such individuals, kept them alive while extorting money from their parents, and when payments ceased, killed them and silently buried them in holes dug beneath the garden trees. This wasn’t some unprecedented enterprise—I’d occasionally read accounts of such operations in books.

No matter what, this state of affairs was pitiful—I wanted to rescue him and ensure he received treatment befitting a human being. Even if they meant to hide him in some secret location, these arrangements treated him far worse than dogs or cats—so if I could escape this place, I would surely take him with me; if that proved impossible, I would stay by his side and tend to him myself. Never before had I felt such overwhelming compassion well up within me. Thinking I should at least let him sit where sunlight streamed through the window cracks, I took his hand to lead him—only to find breadcrumbs clutched in his grasp. They must have delivered food this morning—a realization that filled me with bitter humiliation, for no provisions had come for me. Checking my watch revealed it was already past nine o’clock, though I’d thought dawn still recent. Hunger pangs struck suddenly, but no matter—it seemed they were keeping me fasting per the Medical Scholar’s decree until my body wasted away entirely. Deeming it futile to dwell on starvation now, I steeled myself and pulled up the boy’s hand again—only to discover his leg chained to a lead weight of twenty-six or thirty kilograms, the shackle fastened cruelly short.

Last night he was leaping and thrashing about—ah, so that was it—this morning when they delivered food, they had reattached his chains even more securely. Who would do such a thing? It must be the Medical Scholar. Which meant the Medical Scholar had entered here this morning. What a truly reckless scoundrel! He barged into this room despite my presence—or perhaps he knew I was asleep? Yes, he knew—he *must* have known. Otherwise, he’d never have dared enter. But wait—if he knew I was sleeping, that implied he had been secretly observing my movements from somewhere. Could there truly be such a peephole? Ah! I’d got it—I’d got it! Those eyes in the portrait—that was it! The eye sockets had been hollowed out, allowing someone outside to peer through them into the room. A rather crude mechanism, but no matter—now that I understood, I too had my own methods.

Keeping my method close to my chest, I first set out to free the occupant’s leg chains. Drawing my pocketknife from my coat, I pressed its awl and screwdriver against the lock on the chains and tried with all my wit. After nearly thirty minutes of effort, I finally managed to pick the lock. Though an idiot, the occupant was overjoyed; he went to a corner of the room, picked something up, and held it out to me with a gesture of gratitude. When I opened his hand—there they were: the matches I had struck last night and gathered, seven in total. I was so grateful tears welled up; I immediately accepted them and lit up a cigar—this small act felt like a revival, and my hunger no longer seemed such a great torment.

Wanting to return the favor somehow, I went to the next room, removed small boxes and drawer fronts from the vanity, broke them apart, and lit a fire in the fireplace for him. No qualms about burning every fixture in this room for firewood—I gathered whatever came to hand and threw it in, soon coaxing a robust blaze into life. Though autumn mornings already carried a chill, the idiot clapped his hands and hopped about before the fireplace in delight. This must rank as the greatest act of merit I had performed since being born.

Chapter Sixty: Three Matches Remaining While the fireplace burned, I went to the next room and inspected the cupboard. Though nearly empty, two or three medicine bottles lay buried in dust at the shelf's corner. If my assumption that Hideko had entered this room was correct, she might have ingested these medicines. I took them out, blew off the dust, and examined their labels: one read "Opium Tincture (Poison)," another "Take Immediately Upon Onset of Illness," and the remaining one bore only "Stimulant." A medically trained person might have formed conjectures from this alone, but to me, it provided no substantial clue. Next I opened the closet and found a bundle—clothes rolled up and stuffed into the lower corner. When I pulled them out, they reeked intensely of mildew but were unmistakably women's garments—two or three different types. First I separated them into individual pieces. One was unmistakably Hideko's—the plain shadow-gray garment she always wore. Another appeared slightly shorter and wider; its shoddy tailoring suggested a cheap ready-made garment. Could Torai Fujin have worn this? With these clothes lay a white overgarment—the kind nurses wear. Had Hideko fallen ill here and summoned a nurse? Or had someone—either Hideko or Torai Fujin—worn this? I couldn't determine.

There was one more garment—a peculiar pale yellow one—so when I examined it last, I truly felt sick. What could this be? The garment was a standard-issue uniform worn by female prisoners in British prisons. On the contrary, there was no way Hideko would have worn something like this. It must be Torai Fujin—yes, Torai Fujin, Torai Fujin. Just to be certain, if I turned the inner lining inside out, perhaps some identifying item might fall out. I reached out to do so but couldn’t muster enough courage—if even a one-in-a-million chance revealed proof this belonged to Hideko, it would be catastrophic. No, such a thing was impossible—why would Hideko wear prisoner’s clothing? Reconsidering, I finally inspected the lining, but thankfully found nothing inside. After all, these clothes didn’t belong to anyone identifiable—I’d worried over nothing. Relieved at this triviality, I proceeded to thoroughly check every garment’s lining. From just one shadow-gray piece that seemed to be Hideko’s, a business card emerged. That was all.

The printed text on the business card had been thoroughly erased with pencil. Scrutinizing it closely, I could make out: "Medical Scholar Ōba Rensai"—could this be *the* Medical Scholar? Turning the card over, the same pencil script written in minute detail stated: "In your current circumstances, the sole person capable of truly saving you is Mr. Paul Repell of No. 29 Rasenil Street, Paris, France. Having already communicated your situation to said gentleman, you must visit him directly to make your appeal." I couldn't grasp what this meant, but this surely qualified as a vital clue. If I were to die without escaping this room, that would end matters—but should I leave here alive, I resolved to seek out this Parisian named Paul Repell as well. Since this implied none but he could save Hideko, I couldn't rest without determining what circumstances had required her salvation, nor whether the "you" written here denoted Hideko herself.

Before long, afternoon had deepened into dusk. My hunger only intensified further. With nothing left to investigate here, my sole recourse was to seek an escape route—yet how could I possibly achieve this? Not the faintest prospect presented itself. As I went to check the next room while pondering, I found the idiot collapsed before the fireplace. At first glance he seemed asleep, but pitifully—it appeared that because I hadn't slept, even this person had received no food delivery and now lay utterly enfeebled, staring at my face with desperate longing. While tending to his injuries, I reassured him: "I'll get you out of this room soon. Just endure a little longer, no matter how hard it gets." He seemed to comprehend, laboriously rising to his feet. For a moment he compared his freed leg with the chain that had bound it, then shuffled toward the next room where I'd previously been confined.

The fireplace’s fire had already gone out. There were still things to burn, so relighting it would have been easy, but with matches scarce, it seemed best to leave it unlit until night’s chill set in. Knowing I needed to find an escape route before dark, I stood and inspected every window in the room—each barred like a true prison cell. Hoping some vertical bar might have loosened, I shook each one in turn, but all remained immovably firm. No amount of force made any difference. I could no longer fend off despair. Then night fell completely—if ever there were a moment to speak of emotions overwhelming one’s heart, this would be it. Of course, my hunger only sharpened; the cold too bit deeper with each passing hour—without sustenance, there could be no strength left to endure. I could no longer bear leaving the fireplace unlit—if even I felt this state, the idiot must be suffering unbearably. After relighting it and moving to the next room, I frugally used one of my dwindling matches to look around—only to find him gone. Wondering if there might be an exit somewhere, I struck a second match. To my dismay, only three remained.

Chapter Sixty-One: My Substitute Where was the exit through which that idiot had vanished? When I lit the second match and surveyed the room, I realized he hadn’t disappeared at all—he lay sleeping on the very bed where I had rested. Even in such wretched circumstances, he showed no trace of suffering; his tranquil slumber, so utterly contented in appearance, might truly be deemed enviable. Had I been born an idiot instead, perhaps I might have found fortune in being spared the perception of pain as pain—but now such lamentations amounted to mere futility.

Seeing him sleeping so soundly, I thought it a sin to wake him; thus I returned to the fireplace and watched the flames burn. But my body must have been thoroughly exhausted, for I ended up dozing off while leaning against the chair. When I awoke some time later, the fireplace had completely died out, plunging the room into darkness like the previous night. The cold felt as though someone had doused my back with water. While I was wondering how to endure until dawn, a flicker of lamplight suddenly pierced the darkness of the room from somewhere. Looking closely, I realized the light was leaking through a gap in the window facing the garden. Though uncertain of the hour in this dead of night, I went to the window wondering who would be in the garden and why. Pressing my face against the iron bar, I peered through the widest gap in the shutter. Far across the grounds beneath a tree stood an old woman holding a lantern, while by its light the Medical Scholar dug a large hole with a spade.

This was it—digging a hole to bury a corpse. Who could they be burying tonight? The answer required no deliberation. They meant to bury me. The Medical Scholar had said they would wait until hunger weakened me before making their move—I’d assumed this meant four or five days’ reprieve. But perhaps circumstances forced their hand earlier, or they’d judged me already broken. Bah! I wasn’t some weakling to be dragged off so easily. “Let them come,” I thought, anger kindling defiance as I tensed and watched. The hole appeared half-dug already—no fresh excavation. Once satisfied with its depth, the Medical Scholar straightened up and retreated to the house with the Old Woman.

"Well, they were finally coming to kill me," I thought, gripping his knife as I positioned myself by the entrance door—when suddenly, from the next room came an earsplitting crash. I couldn’t discern what had caused the sound, but sensing something was amiss, I slowly moved to the next room and struck one of the three remaining matches. What I saw made me cry out, “Ah!” What could this be? The bed where that idiot had been sleeping had vanished, leaving only a gaping hole in the floor where it had stood. Indeed, the bed had been a trapdoor all along—the floor would give way, causing anyone sleeping there to plummet below.

I never imagined such a cruel mechanism could exist—no doubt some noble who once lived here had built this secret device to kill his enemies. The Medical Scholar had repurposed it—how many lives must it have claimed by now? Truly merciless fiends. Yet even so—why would they use this device to kill that idiot? At first, I found it suspicious—like using a sledgehammer to crack a nut—but ah, I realized: they hadn’t expected the idiot to be sleeping on that bed; they had fully believed it was me.

I approached the hole and peered down, but the darkness revealed nothing of its depth. With no alternative, I dropped the still-burning match I held—it fell about two jō before extinguishing with an odd splash. The dying light showed water below—an old well where the idiot had drowned in my stead. "What a wretched thing I’ve done," I thought. Yet staying meant discovery when they realized their error. That Medical Scholar might respond unpredictably—escape became imperative regardless of risk. To wait passively for his return with reinforcements? Unthinkable. Desperation gripped me completely. No visible exits remained save for the portrait above the bed’s headboard—the same bed positioned foot-first toward my earlier fireplace room—meaning behind that painting must lie a corridor. The eyes watching through its painted gaze suggested not plaster but wood paneling behind it—breakable wood! Testing with an experimental knock confirmed this: thinner than expected—one solid strike would suffice.

I first tried prying it open with my knife, and without much effort, the blade pierced through. The board’s thickness was barely four bu; deeming this manageable, I drilled holes at intervals and soon mustered all my strength to push and batter against it. Within thirty minutes of starting, I had broken through the board. Had I realized this sooner, things might have gone differently—but what’s done cannot be undone. At any rate, escaping the room marked the first step toward victory. Wondering what lay beyond, I struck one of my two remaining matches. As expected, it revealed a corridor—but this corridor sloped steeply downward like an avalanche. Speculating whether it led to a cellar or connected to a lower room, I descended further until reaching another door at the dead end. Ah—now I understood. The thinness of the board behind the portrait served no true purpose, for even if one broke through it, this door here rendered escape utterly impossible. That wooden partition existed solely for concealment and surveillance.

If that was the case, then breaking through that door had actually served no purpose at all—a somewhat disappointing realization. First, I considered the surrounding layout: from the side of this door, another corridor seemed to approach, forming a T-shaped junction here. Even if I went down the side corridor, there would undoubtedly be another door at the end. Deciding to try this door first, I tested its thickness by knocking—when a voice came from beyond it. “Hey, Medical Scholar—no need to knock so violently. When the old woman went to check earlier, she left this door open. The lock’s undone.” This voice was unmistakably Anakawa Jinzou. What a stroke of luck that the lock was undone! With the feeling of revival surging through me, I said, “It’s not the Medical Scholar—it’s me!” and opened the door to enter. Indeed, it was Jinzou’s bedroom.

Chapter Sixty-Two: Poisonous Spider

Now that I think about it, the place where they had hung that portrait was originally a doorway—but after removing the door, they had filled it in with a board, concealed the mismatched wall color with an insignificant painting, and conveniently allowed spying inside from outside. In other words, it had been the most vulnerable spot in his room. It was fortunate I had focused my attention there. Moreover, emerging precisely when the door to Anakawa’s bedroom stood open could almost be deemed an act of divine providence.

When I entered Anakawa’s room, he—though lying in bed—immediately seized a pistol and aimed it at me, threatening, “Make a move and you’re dead.” In a composed tone, I said, “Mr. Anakawa—until we returned to this house by carriage, you couldn’t stop bowing to me as your savior, grateful for your very life. Yet now you express that gratitude with a pistol?” Anakawa stared at my face and said, “Ah, ah—it’s you? Because I never said you were Medical Scholar Ōba,” offering this excuse-like remark—yet still he did not lower the pistol. Even amidst this chaos, I noted the name “Ōba,” and recalling how the business card bearing “Ōba Rensai” had fallen from that shadow-gray cloak—likely Hideko’s garment—I nodded to myself in understanding that this was indeed the quack doctor. “I’m the very man who’s cared for you from the train ride to this house. I’ve neither fled nor harmed you yet, so lower that pistol for now.” Anakawa: “No—with this body of mine, I have no one else to rely on. I won’t lower it.” “But as long as you remain honest, it’s not as though I’ll necessarily shoot you.” I said, “Then I’ll speak plainly—I have something to discuss with you. Close this room’s door so others can’t interfere.” I asked, “Where is the key?” “The key should still be attached to that door.” Indeed, the key remained inserted in the keyhole of the lock. Since I was determined to confront Anakawa Jinzou sternly before leaving this house, I made sure to remove the lock from the inside so the Medical Scholar could not enter. And then, as I looked around the room, I noticed that by Anakawa’s bedside, on a small table, dishes of food and drinks had been laid out. Most likely, the Medical Scholar intended to have supper after finishing his work. But this was no time for hesitation. “Mr. Anakawa, having gone without food all day today, I’m so famished that even my words are getting jumbled.” “First, I’ll partake of this meal—we’ll talk once I’ve filled my stomach,” he declared, sitting down at the table and beginning to eat without restraint. Of course, it was a crude meal, but I had never experienced such a delicious sensation since I could remember. Anakawa Jinzou muttered in an impressed tone, “Ah, what fine nerve. You’d make a splendid villain.” “I’ve no wish to play the villain, but wanting to eat when you’re starving doesn’t require courage.”

While I was eating, frequent footsteps sounded outside the room. It must have been the Medical Scholar and the old woman. From their movements, they had likely gone to inspect the room where I had been confined. Before I could even finish anticipating their shocked return, they came clattering down. From beyond the door came a cry: “Doctor! Doctor! Disaster! That wretch saw through our scheme—left a decoy behind and fled!” The voice was unmistakably the Medical Scholar’s. “Nonsense—he hasn’t fled,” Anakawa replied. “He’s right here in this room, devouring the supper you prepared.” “Ah—so it’s him? Starvation must have broken his spirit. In all my years, nothing saps a man’s resolve like an empty belly.” “A relief, truly—I feared you might lie throttled by that cur.” “Throttled? This pistol makes me poor sport for strangling even bedridden. Set your mind at ease.” “But if I bid you open this door now, you cannot rise to do it! How came this lock undone?” Even as he spoke came the frantic rattling of the doorknob. “I made him secure it at gunpoint.” “Then train your pistol anew and make him unbar it!” “No—certain matters require discussion between us first. Wait in yonder chamber until we conclude.” “Hopeless,” grumbled the Medical Scholar—when suddenly the old woman’s voice pierced through: “Jinzou! Jinzou! We’ve dug this pit splendidly!” “With practice comes skill—the Medical Scholar grows more efficient by the day!” “Enough prattle of trifles,” Anakawa snapped.

At his rebuking voice, the old woman fell silent. I too had just finished my meal at that moment, leaving only the dishes behind, but through these circumstances I felt keenly... Indeed, when Hideko had spoken of poisonous spiders spinning webs to trap people and prevent their escape, she had meant this very place. Though "poisonous spiders" had been entirely metaphorical in wording, the Medical Scholar, the Doctor, and even the Doctor’s mother were all true venomous spiders. Hideko must have once been caught in this web—no, even now she had yet to escape from it. My purpose was to enable her to break free. I too had been caught in the same web, but had fortunately managed to escape somehow. How many people before now had been unable to escape and ended up as prey to those poisonous spiders? That the Medical Scholar had grown more efficient at digging burial pits through practice—though phrased as mere brief words—contained immeasurable horror when properly considered. In exchange, once I escaped this spider den, I would not leave without purging it thoroughly. Now I would finally begin those negotiations.

Chapter Sixty-Three: Yes or No?

I needed to confront Anakawa in a major negotiation, but above all else, the pistol in his hand bothered me. If I could just seize it, he’d become like a boneless jellyfish—utterly powerless. Feigning complete indifference to both the situation and the pistol, I finally spoke. “Now, Mr. Anakawa—our meeting on the train and my assistance in reaching this house may seem coincidental, but it was no accident. I tracked you from Ghost Tower specifically to negotiate.” With this declaration, I presented my business card. He already stiffened at “Ghost Tower,” but seeing my card widened his eyes further. “Y-you’re Marube Michikurou?” he stammered, face slack with shock. This proved his undoing. That split-second gap in his focus let me wrench the pistol from his grip—a flawless maneuver denying him any chance to resist.

Before he could utter a single word of anger, I said, “Having this around will only hinder our conversation.” “I’ll hold onto it until we’re done talking.” “Outrageous! Snatching it unannounced—no gentleman would—” “A gentleman needs no pistol’s accompaniment for discourse,” I retorted. “But without it—injured as I am—my body won’t obey.” “Your body’s uselessness matters little—so long as that mouth functions.” “Already caught in your palm—do as you threaten.” “I’ve no taste for pistol-point coercion,” I declared, slipping the weapon from my waist into my coat pocket. “Proof enough?”

With just this, the situation had already shifted to one where host and guest had exchanged places. He was still grumbling, but I cut him off with a sharp rebuke—“Be silent. This is no way for a man to act”—before declaring, “In truth, I wish to be shot dead by you here.” “Of course, I came here with the intention of not returning alive—having made all necessary preparations before following you.” Anakawa muttered as if to himself, “Ah, so that’s why Hideko was so stubborn—sending back that impudent reply saying she’d never meet me no matter what happened and I could do as I pleased.” “Perhaps that may be so. In any case, I consulted with my uncle Asao and informed him that should this body of mine fail to return by the third day, he must immediately report to the authorities that I’ve been killed and dispatch officers to this spider farm.” “That’s why I must return by tomorrow no matter what. In fact, my escaping from that room tonight was done more for your sake than my own.” “But once you’ve taken my pistol, I can’t very well kill you, and even if officers come, there’s no justification for them to arrest me—” “Whether justification exists will be determined by the authorities—there’s no need to argue it here.” “First, you will listen to what I have to say.” “Very well—even without such insistence, I’ve no choice but to listen.” “I will state my terms: you must leave this land within thirty days and emigrate abroad, on the condition that you never set foot in this country again. In exchange, I’ll provide two hundred pounds for your travel expenses.” “Why is that?” “Because your presence in this country hinders Hideko’s happiness.” He remained silent for a while as if trying to summon resolve, then said, “Indeed—I can be both hindrance and help. That depends entirely on my intentions. But if I refuse?” “If you refuse, it’s simply a matter of dispatching officers.” “The reason I infiltrated this room was solely to obtain enough incriminating evidence for that purpose.” “Now that I’ve witnessed sufficient evidence, your consent or refusal holds little consequence for me. If you say yes, I’ll let you flee abroad safely; if no, I’ll borrow the law’s hand of capital punishment to remove you from this world entirely.” “Now—which will you choose? I urge nothing; simply give your unreserved answer: yes or no?”

His countenance was a pitiful sight to behold. Anger, confusion, resolve, and fear battled within him; soon he spoke in a defensive tone: "What crime could I possibly have committed? I'm an honest man supporting my family through spider cultivation—what, is keeping that idiot upstairs a crime?" "He has nothing to do with me. I merely lent the second-floor space at the request of Ōba Rensai—though he's not actually a medical scholar, let's call him that for now—a former prison doctor. What Ōba put in that room is beyond my knowledge." Now, it seemed this Medical Scholar had served as a prison doctor. I said, "Of course, Ōba's crimes will not go unpunished—" "No, even Ōba's deeds aren't so grave. He merely does what any doctor in society would do." "'What any doctor would do...?'" "Well, laymen might find this shocking, but from our professional perspective—entering homes as we do—it's only natural." "Every household has members who might disgrace the family name. When they can't be sent to public institutions, people turn to doctors." "Doctors can't exactly kill someone outright when asked, so we find secret places to let them waste away in secret." "That's why successful doctors keep such locations under special contract." "Is that fake Medical Scholar one of these 'successful' doctors?" "I wouldn't know about success, but having been a prison doctor, he knows more household secrets than most. Naturally receives many confidential requests." "The idiot here is one such case. True, there may have been negligence in his care—we can't deny accusations of poor treatment—but to call that criminal..." "I may be mistaken," I said, "but amateurs like us arguing over criminality leads nowhere. As I said earlier, let the authorities decide whether beds becoming trapdoors to dump sleepers into wells—or countless corpses buried without due process by the matriarch digging holes by lantern-light—counts as standard practice. Whether that absolves the household head... They'll determine that swiftly enough." "Well, Mr. Anakawa—I've detained you too long," I said with feigned courtesy, folding complete victory within my breast as I made to rise.

Chapter Sixty-Four: New Life

Seeing I was finally about to leave, Anakawa urgently tried to stop me with fervent desperation. "Wait—wait, Mr. Marube! There's something I must tell you."

Now, he seemed completely at a loss. I asked curtly, “What is it?” “You still do not know Hideko’s true circumstances—your mistake lies in thinking that expelling me will save her.” “The only person in this wide world who can secure Hideko’s happiness—that person is not me.” It was truly an extraordinary claim—one I couldn’t fully grasp—yet something about his tone didn’t seem false. “Huh? What do you mean?” “If you go to that person and make a request—no, if that person consents and agrees—then no matter who says what, they won’t be able to do anything to Hideko.” “Whether I remain in this country or not makes absolutely no difference.” “Unless you obtain that person’s consent, no matter how hard you strive, you cannot make Hideko’s life happy in the slightest—in other words, she is like a divine messenger whose happiness or unhappiness depends solely on God’s will.” “What good would come of others tinkering with petty schemes without first entreating that God?” After saying this much and seeing that I still wasn’t fully convinced, he pressed on, “Mr. Marube—have you not heard that Hideko carries a secret mission?” “If you have not heard of it, you will not understand my story—but if you have heard it, then you will surely comprehend.” His words grew ever stranger, but given that he brought up Hideko’s secret mission, I could not simply dismiss them. “I have heard it.” “Since this is a secret mission one would want to fulfill even at the cost of their life, it is no ordinary matter.” “Who bestowed that secret mission upon Hideko?” “It’s the god I just mentioned. Now, this god doesn’t merely hold Hideko’s fate in his hands once or twice—he can make her offer her very life, bending her entirely to his will.” “Whether Hideko is saved or not depends on whether you cling to that person or cast them aside. If you doubt me, go meet them yourself—even if Hideko were dead, that person could grant her new life and revive her, I tell you.”

I could not refrain from pressing further.

“Who is that person?” “Ah, that’s my secret. I can’t simply tell you without first obtaining a firm promise from you.” “What sort of promise?” “A promise that before reporting me to the authorities or sending me abroad, you’ll definitely go see that person.” “What purpose would such a promise serve?” “To me, this is a matter of grave importance.” “Why?” “If you go to that person and make your request, it’ll become clear there’s no need to reprimand or prosecute me—Anakawa—rendering my existence irrelevant.” “If I go to that person and find your words to be lies—” “Then feel free to sue me or do as you please. Of course, in this condition, I can’t flee or hide while you go meet them and return. Once you’re back, whether you arrest me or drag me before the courts—yes, you can subject me to any fate you choose.”

Indeed, that might be so—if I met that person and discovered Anakawa had deceived me, I could exact full vengeance upon him afterward. Even resigned to potential deception, meeting this individual remained a viable strategy. “Then tell me that person’s address and full name.” “Do you swear—*swear*—to go to him?” “I swear.” “If you claim you’ll go but instead accuse me as matters stand, Hideko will assuredly perish.” “Her very survival hinges on receiving new life from him.” “She already gained new life once before—repaying that debt through her secret mission—so she must obtain it anew now, reborn into bliss… or else all will be futile.”

Because the words were so bizarre, I reconsidered several times—thinking he probably intended to make a fool of me—but there was no way to know without testing it in practice. Well, I thought I’d let myself be deceived. “I promise I will go to that person without fail, so please tell me their address and name. Now—who is it?” At this critical moment, Anakawa hesitated slightly, torn between truth and deception, then said: “It can’t be helped. Though it will bring me great loss, I shall tell you.” “It’s Dr. Paul Repell, residing at 29 Rue Racine in Paris.” Now, this was the very person written on that Medical Scholar’s business card—which had emerged from the shadow-colored garment—as the sole savior in all the wide world who could rescue you. Given how the details aligned, it didn’t seem entirely a lie. Even if it were a lie, it seemed certain that this person was at least somewhat connected to Hideko’s secrets, so I resolved to meet him regardless. As I deliberated this in my mind, Anakawa muttered with unmistakable regret: “Ah—if this person protects Hideko again and grants her new life, we’ll no longer be able to use her or do anything about her. He’s like a golden vine we’re forced to sever—but you can’t save your belly by cutting off your back. It can’t be helped.” “Then I shall go to that person’s place as soon as possible,” I declared aloud and resolved inwardly. After bidding farewell to Anakawa, I immediately opened the window of this room and exited through it. Then, from outside the window, I threw the pistol back inside with a “Here—returning it properly,” and hurriedly departed this detestable spider farm.

Chapter Sixty-Five: Now Again—Now Again

Upon leaving the spider farm, I felt such an urge to go to Paris immediately—but first, I wanted to see Hideko’s face. Since I hadn’t seen Hideko for two days already, I felt as though I had entered another world—to put it plainly, I missed her face.

By now, dawn had broken, and when I walked from there to the station, it was precisely the time for the first train’s departure. I immediately boarded and returned to Ghost Tower around two in the afternoon. As I stepped into the entrance, the guard, with a peculiar look, said, "Miss Hideko and the Master were terribly worried, not knowing where you had gone." There was something extraordinary in those words beyond their literal meaning. Wondering if some dreadful incident had occurred in my absence, I felt a sense of foreboding unlike any before. Dismissing him with a curt “Is that all?”, I rushed past without another word and hurried into Hideko’s room.

Unlike her usual self—meticulous in every precaution—the room’s door stood wide open. Inside, I found Hideko reclining on a tilted chair in the corner, her body arched backward as she stared at the ceiling, disheveled hair spilling behind the chair, hands clasped atop her head. It was a state beyond despair—utterly indescribable. She seemed unaware of my arrival. "Miss Hideko—what’s happened?" Startled, she leapt up. "Oh! You’ve returned so quickly—" she cried, clinging to my chest. Ordinarily, she would never act thus—whether fear, sorrow, or joy, she folded everything within her heart, maintaining perfect calm and composure. For her to do this now meant something extraordinary had indeed occurred. "What’s wrong? Please calm yourself and tell me," I urged, stroking her back. Hideko wept: "It’s hopeless—this is fate. In all the world… why must I alone endure such trials?" "First they accused me of killing Miss O-Ura, and now—now—" Her words dissolved into sobs. "What now? Miss Hideko—have new suspicions fallen upon you?" "They have! They claim I poisoned Father." Poisoning Father? What madness was this? "Ah—ah!" I cried involuntarily, pushing her away. "Has something befallen Uncle?"

“Yes—it seems there was poison in the wine I poured for him. He has been ill since the day before yesterday.” “What? Since the day before yesterday—and now?” “As for his current condition—though I’ve heard from the maids that he has slightly improved—even if I wish to nurse him myself, they suspect I’d use poison again and won’t let me near him. If Father were to pass away as things stand, they’ll say it was my doing. And if he recovers, they’ll claim I was kept away to prevent further poisoning. Either way, I—” “But who is keeping you from entering his room?” “The attending nurse. I’ve suspected from the start that it’s likely a detective sent by the police disguised as a nurse—but” “Even so, isn’t this suspicion too reckless? There’s no conceivable reason for you to kill Father.” “No—there *is* a reason. That’s why they call it fate’s cruel end.” “Everything—from start to finish—has been arranged as though I must kill Father.” “Someone who hates me—no, I can’t imagine anyone like that existing—but unless I assume there is, none of this makes sense.”

I felt as though I were trapped in a horrifying dream. “Yes, Miss Hideko—no matter what anyone does or how fate may turn against us, now that I am here, it’s all right. I will never allow such suspicions to remain upon you.” “Even in the O-Ura incident—when you were under such heavy suspicion—did I not shatter it all to dust with my words?” “Please don’t worry in the slightest and leave everything entirely to me.” “If things were to proceed that way, I imagine I would feel some measure of joy—but this time, it is beyond anyone’s power to help.”

Even as she spoke, there was a visible sign of her calming down somewhat by relying on me. In any case, I was concerned about Uncle’s condition, so after emphatically reassuring Hideko multiple times with “Please rest assured,” I proceeded to Uncle’s sickroom. When I reached the doorway, a man dressed in a nurse’s uniform emerged from within. He seemed to be changing shifts after growing fatigued from nursing duties. I certainly recognized his face, though I would not yet say who he was. First, I urgently stopped him: “Pardon me—might I ask if it’s permissible to enter this sickroom now?” “I’m afraid not—he’s only just fallen asleep.” “Then I shall wait until he awakens. “However, there is something I would like to ask you now.” The nurse looked at me suspiciously but said, “Who are you?” “Yes, I am Marube Michikurou, the patient’s nephew.” The nurse said, “Then I shall answer whatever you ask.” I led this person into a room most suitable for a private conversation, pointed to a chair, and declared, “Now, standing there won’t do for talking. Please have a seat here—ah, Mori Mondo-san,” calling out his name.

Chapter Sixty-Six: What Evidence? Though his appearance differed, this nurse was unmistakably Detective Mori Mondo, who had been involved in the O-Ura case. I discerned a certain astute gleam deep within his eyes.

He was greatly surprised at being named but did not feign ignorance. He suddenly laughed. “Ah—changing my appearance isn’t my forte, I admit. But to be detected by an amateur—that’s the first time in twenty years.” “I’m astonished by your discernment,” he praised, then swiftly shifted tone. “Now—what was this matter you wished to discuss with me?” he casually inquired. I had entreated him to disclose everything unreservedly and then pressed for details about why such a dreadful suspicion had fallen upon Hideko—and upon hearing the particulars in full, there were indeed plausible aspects to it.

According to his account, on the very day I left this house pursuing Anakawa Jinzou—before nightfall—my uncle had summoned a legal practitioner as he had long intended and drawn up a will designating both myself and Hideko as heirs to the Marube family. Though he had not yet informed me of this, he had immediately read the entire document aloud to Hideko on the spot. Then the next morning arrived, and Takanawatari Nagazo handed over to Uncle’s hands something like a letter that had been minutely written about some matter. In it had apparently been written everything about Hideko’s background and secrets. Uncle was greatly shocked and immediately summoned Hideko, interrogating her: "Do you have any recollection of such matters?" For a while, Hideko merely showed a look of bewilderment and could not manage any reply, but soon resolved herself deeply and confessed frankly.

Well, that resolve—according to the detective’s analysis—appeared to be a determination to kill his uncle. Here, by confessing, she had made his uncle feel at ease and let down his guard, then resolved to secretly poison him later—thus she had hatched this plan. Uncle had thought such a thing would be unthinkable for Hideko, but it turned out to be unexpectedly true. Overwhelmed by this revelation, he lost his composure, dismissed her, and secluded himself in a room.

Perceiving this state of affairs, he may have been contemplating alone—regretting the terms of the previous day’s will—that he could by no means make Hideko an heir and thus must somehow revise it. Since he had asserted it so decisively, Hideko likely thought that unless she killed Uncle before he rewrote the will, she would not only lose her inheritance rights to the vast fortune but also be expelled from this house, leaving her with nowhere to go. Several hours later, she went again to Uncle’s room, exchanged a few pleasantries, then—citing his pallid complexion—persuaded him to drink some wine. She herself took a glass cup from the shelf, poured the wine into it, and handed it directly to him with her own hands. Uncle accepted it and drank; his body immediately went numb.

Fortunately, Uncle had not yet finished drinking when he noticed something amiss, so at that moment he merely suffered numbness throughout his body; then, immediately declaring that the wine was poisoned, he placed both hands upon the partially drunk glass cup and wine bottle and called for someone to seal them—that was all he could manage before the numbness spread through his entire frame, leaving him in a state where he could no longer act. But this too lasted only briefly. Whether due to the doctor’s skillful treatment or akin to sobering from drunkenness, Uncle regained consciousness after several hours. Yet he did not suspect Hideko’s involvement in the slightest, still allowing her to attend to him. However, the physician who examined him deemed the matter grave; upon coincidentally encountering the police chief on his return journey, he reportedly entreated him to handle the situation discreetly. At the very moment the police chief returned to the station, Detective Mori happened to be present and heard the account. Having already begun investigating O-Ura’s disappearance—which had since stalled—and given the many unresolved matters surrounding Ghost Tower, he insisted they temporarily entrust this case to him. After finally obtaining consent, he enlisted a local detective under his command—disguised as a nurse—and through arrangements with the aforementioned doctor, had him take up residence in this house.

First, upon analyzing his partially drunk cup and the wine bottle, they found no abnormalities in the bottle’s contents but detected poison mixed into the remaining wine in the cup. Thus, upon examination, they could only conclude that someone had stealthily added poison to the cup when pouring the wine. It was discovered that the poison was, remarkably, the sap of a plant called Granil from India—a species not found in this country. Having heard this far, I recalled that “Granil” was the poison applied to the blade that had stabbed me earlier. When I informed Mori of this fact, he nodded and said, “Precisely. After all, encountering such a rare poison twice in the same household within a short span was far too peculiar. I had my subordinates thoroughly investigate it, and we discovered its source.” “You are aware that at the edge of this village there is a house called Senkusa-ya that cultivates plants and flowers?” “Indeed, I am aware,” I replied. “I believe I mentioned earlier how an apprentice from that house once came to inform me of the fake telegram incident and received a ten-pound reward.” “Yes,” said Mori. “The owner of that house is called the Old Wrinkled Woman. She once lived in India and still cultivates Indian plants there—including Granil.” “What of it?” “Furthermore, there is someone in this house who occasionally visits that house.” “Who?” “Miss Hideko’s attendant—Madam Torai.” “But Madam is ill.” “Her illness has mostly recovered,” Mori countered. “Yesterday, she went to that house again.” “For what purpose?” “That old woman claims expertise in lemur care and their treatment during illnesses—ostensibly she goes there under that pretext.” “Not to acquire Granil?” “They wouldn’t sell it even if she tried,” Mori said flatly. “The only option would be theft.” I pressed further: “Then you mean she stole—”

“No—on the contrary, she wouldn’t stoop to stealing it herself. That Madam has been secretly giving pocket money to the apprentice of that house.” “Even so, that wouldn’t constitute evidence that Hideko poisoned Uncle.” “Of course, this alone is not evidence.” “I merely explained the source of the Granil.” “Then on what evidence do you suspect Hideko?” “Unfortunately, a small bottle containing Granil liquid was found in Miss Hideko’s room.”

Chapter Sixty-Seven: Ex-Convict

The fact that the poison bottle had been hidden in Hideko’s room was truly unexpected; even I, for all my usual composure, could not offer any defense.

But I became desperate and said, “Yet Mr. Mori, there are many instances in this world of corruption scandals and detectives’ blunders. Have you never heard stories where evidence deemed irrefutable—even acknowledged by judges—turned out to be entirely mistaken against all expectations?” “Yes,” he replied, “I’m more familiar with such cases than you.” “Then why,” I pressed, “do you already suspect Hideko based on a single poison bottle?” “It’s not merely one bottle—as I’ve explained, all circumstances point to her.” “But circumstances viewed from another angle might equally suggest this isn’t Hideko’s doing!” “To put it plainly—you claim there’s abundant counterevidence?” “Exactly. They may not qualify as definitive counterevidence, but they certainly constitute contradictory circumstances.” “Very well—what sort of contradictory circumstances? Name one or two from this multitude.”

Now that I had been told this, there was not a single matter I could point to as being a contrary circumstance. Flustered and grasping for words, I said, “Well, for instance—” “Well, for instance—” “Wasn’t Hideko also suspected in O-Ura’s disappearance? If you consider that, there may be someone scheming to cast criminal suspicion upon her.” “There may or may not be such a person, but that’s not worth considering. From that—” I said, “From that—indeed, there are quite a few people in this house with unclear backgrounds and histories.” “It’s impossible to claim those people haven’t schemed to cast suspicion upon Hideko for some purpose.” “Who is this person? First, even if we assume numerous suspects exist, just name one individual from among them.” “For instance, someone like Takanawatari Nagazo.”

I spoke out—then stopped mid-sentence, aghast at my own audacity—and looked at Detective Mori’s face. The detective likewise studied mine. Yet he showed no trace of surprise; rather, he appeared more profoundly affected by my words than I had anticipated. After a moment’s silent contemplation, he finally said, “Indeed, I too find it puzzling why Mr. Takanawatari has remained here as a guest since the Konsai couple vacated Torisu-an.” “However, I do not believe he is involved in this affair.” Emboldened, I pressed, “You can’t claim he’s unrelated! Did you not yourself state he sent a secret letter to Uncle? That marked the very genesis of this incident!” “Yet your uncle himself confirms that letter was not written out of malice toward Hideko, but rather from genuine concern for her welfare.” “What? Reporting Hideko to Uncle in such a slanderous manner—out of *concern*?” “No—‘slanderous’ misrepresents it. “While I haven’t seen the letter myself, your uncle insists it merely stated facts—matters Hideko ought to have disclosed herself. Unable to speak them, someone intervened on her behalf.” “It was wholly for her own protection.”

I didn’t believe such an anonymous report could exist, but since neither Mori nor I actually knew what had been disclosed, we couldn’t properly dispute it. Mori continued: “To clarify—two days ago, Mr. Takanawatari fell from this mansion’s second floor. Though I helped him up, he’s now nearly immobile and confined to bed in a private room.” “The doctor says his chronic heart condition has severely worsened, leaving him physically incapable of involvement in such matters.” Mori’s arguments carried far more weight than my own feeble protests. I countered, “Even granting Takanawatari’s non-involvement, that doesn’t prove Hideko’s guilt!” “Yet despite being barred from your uncle’s chambers,” Mori pressed, “Hideko visited him yesterday morning under guise of sympathy. She poured water into his cup and made him drink—water evidently poisoned anew, for his paralysis returned exactly as before.”

I could only stand astonished. Unable to offer any defense, I let out a voice verging on tears and spoke with desperate resolve: "But Mr. Mori—to suspect someone, you must consider their daily conduct! Does Hideko—in her ordinary life—seem like a woman who would poison anyone? And you should likewise consider Takanawatari Nagazo’s daily behavior!" “Precisely because we consider her daily conduct,” Mori countered, “suspicion falls even more heavily upon Hideko.” “What flaws in her daily conduct could you possibly mean?” Mori sidestepped direct reply: “Mr. Takanawatari’s daily conduct as a gentleman remains beyond reproach—he is Ghost Tower’s former owner, raised by old woman Okon. Though he apparently caroused wildly in his youth, such behavior proves typical of youthful indiscretion. Investigations from that era to the present reveal nothing dishonorable to his status as a gentleman. In contrast, Miss Hideko’s circumstances—” “Wait—why ‘in contrast’?” “What? What do you mean by ‘ex-convict’?” “She’s a woman who served hard labor as a convicted criminal.” At this horrifying declaration, I found myself utterly speechless.

Chapter Sixty-Eight: And Moreover, a Prison Break

An ex-convict—who could believe that this beautiful Hideko, who wouldn’t hurt a fly, was someone who had served hard labor?

Even so, I could not simply dismiss it. In a room at Yōchūen, I had seen prison garments alongside a dusk-gray kimono thought to have been worn by Hideko. At the time, I thought perhaps even Torai Fujin had worn them, but were those actually Hideko’s? Had Hideko truly served a prison sentence?

Even if sentenced to hard labor, no one wears prison garments outside; those clothes are the prison’s standard-issue. Even if they wished to keep wearing them, they cannot—only prison breakers emerge clad in such garb. If Hideko wore those garments, she must be a fugitive convict; perhaps she had sneaked out of prison still wearing them. The more I dwelled on it, the more terrifying it became. Wait—inside Hideko’s clothing had been a name tag belonging to Ōba Rensai, who styled himself as a Medical Scholar. Rensai had once served as a prison doctor, as Anakawa had stated. When I gathered these pieces together, I could not outright dismiss Mori Mondo’s words. It was not impossible that Hideko was an ex-convict—and moreover, because she might even harbor the secret of a prison break, perhaps she had been unable to escape the circumstances of being exploited by Jinzou and others until now.

After my thoughts had seethed within me to the point of boiling over, I turned to Mori and asked, “What do you intend to do now?” “The course of action is settled—it’s merely a matter of binding her with ropes and taking her away.” “But whether Hideko is an ex-convict remains mere conjecture on your part at present, does it not? To arrest someone based on conjecture alone—” “Whether she’s an ex-convict is a separate issue. Even if confirmed, should she have already served her due sentence, I’d have no grounds to question it—I’ve only investigated that aspect for my own understanding.” “Regardless of that point, clear evidence exists that she attempted to poison your uncle. We cannot let this stand.” “When will she be arrested?” “I must now prepare a detailed report to send to London and obtain an arrest warrant through official channels—likely by the day after tomorrow.” “This is confidential police business, but I disclose it trusting you won’t inform Hideko and facilitate her escape.” “If she flees during this period, we’ll deem you her accomplice.”

“I firmly believe those suspicions are baseless—why would I ever advise fleeing? Moreover, Hideko herself trusts in her own innocence.” “Why would she ever resort to fleeing?” I declared resolutely, though in truth, I felt uncertain. I didn’t want to consider whether there might be some scheme to make her flee, yet the thought persisted unbidden. Yet if she were truly the sort of woman who must flee—one deserving such distrust—there’d be no need to let her escape; rather, I ought to bind her myself. But Hideko was absolutely not that sort. By my own hand, I had to prove her innocence—but how? My sole remaining hope lay with that Paul Repell of Paris whom Jinzou had mentioned. There was no alternative but to consult this man. If he knew Hideko’s true nature—that she was no ex-convict, no poisoner—I would bring him here to testify. Though their relationship eluded me, since he alone could “grant her new life”—even snatching vitality from death’s grasp—I needed him to bestow that salvation here and now.

I firmly resolved, turned to Mori, and earnestly requested that he delay Hideko’s arrest for three days starting now, declaring that within that time I would surely present evidence to the contrary. “Well, if it’s three days starting now, that aligns well enough with my own plans—it’s not as though I’m granting this delay out of deference to your request.” “Gather your evidence to the contrary thoroughly—if any exists—but I will absolutely not grant an extension beyond three days.” “Very well.” “You must swear that you will not let Hideko escape under any circumstances.” “I swear—I will absolutely not let her escape.” It seemed we had reached an agreement. Though I did not know what might come of going to Paris, as there was no other course of action available, I resolved to depart for Paris without delay.

Chapter Sixty-Nine: A Demon’s World

My heart raced like arrow bamboo straining in the wind—such were my thoughts at that moment. Though I burned to reach Paris posthaste and meet this Mr. Repell, desperate to secure some means of saving Hideko with all speed, neither could I depart without laying eyes on my uncle who teetered at death's door. I had no choice but to wait until he regained consciousness. During this interminable wait, I visited Hideko's chambers—yet found myself unable to repeat Mori's accusations verbatim to her ears. Were I to ask here and now whether you were truly an ex-convict, that might settle matters—but though my tongue should rot, I could never voice such a question. Since it was already established you weren't an ex-convict, there was no need for awkward inquiries; though urging flight here would prove simplest, even this seemed unnecessary—what fool would counsel escape to one proven innocent? To gather evidence of that innocence remained precisely why I journeyed to Paris.

I faced Hideko and told her repeatedly—over and over—that since I had taken full responsibility for everything, she need not worry in the slightest, that she should rest assured as if aboard a parent ship. In her current circumstances, where not a soul showed her sympathy, Hideko appeared deeply moved by my kindness upon hearing these words—yet she seemed unable to truly feel herself aboard that parent ship. No matter what, her anxious demeanor would not fade.

In the meantime, a maid came to inform me that my uncle had regained consciousness. I faced Hideko and told her I must go to Paris—though I would return after staying just one night—and assured her I had made thorough arrangements so nothing would happen in my absence. I immediately headed for my uncle’s bedroom but encountered Mori Mondo again in the hallway. He stopped me purposefully and said, “Mr. Marube—though I stated earlier there remained a three-day grace period before Hideko’s arrest, depending on circumstances, even that much time may no longer be granted.” “What? After making such a firm promise,” I retorted, “how dare you now speak of ‘depending on circumstances’—with what authority do you say this?” “Ah,” he replied, “there’s one thing I forgot to mention.” “If your uncle were to pass away from illness even as soon as tomorrow, the matter of poisoning has already reached the proper channels’ ears. An autopsy will inevitably follow, and should its results lead to Hideko being taken away immediately, there will be nothing I can do through my own efforts—I merely state this as a precaution.” Indeed, in such a case, Mori’s power would likely prove useless—yet these words pierced my chest like a sword.

Would my uncle's condition truly be so dire that he couldn't last three days? If that were the case, I couldn't abandon him and leave. My desperate efforts to save Hideko would completely miss their timing—though unbearably regrettable, there was nothing to be done. Steeped in profound dejection, I entered my uncle's sickroom. He was awake. "Oh, Michikurou? I just sent a maid to fetch you." "Uncle, how are you feeling?" "Perhaps because I napped—I've improved considerably." "If this continues, I should return to normal in four or five days." Indeed, he seemed much improved. Contrary to the detective's claims, there appeared little chance of an autopsy occurring within three or four days. Gathering resolve, I said: "If you don't require me here Uncle, I'd like to hurry to Paris for urgent business." He opened his eyes wide and looked at me. "Another trip?" he sighed—revealing how deeply my absence unsettled him. "I don't wish to go, but it can't be avoided." "If you're not here... Hideko will surely face difficulties." That he still spoke of Hideko this way suggested he hadn't given up on her yet. Probing his true feelings, I asked: "Though I hear Hideko faces various suspicions..." "What—would Hideko ever poison me? Whatever else may be said—she isn't that sort of woman." That Uncle harbored no suspicion remained our greatest strength. Yet his phrase "whatever else may be said" implied lingering doubts about her beyond this matter—he no longer trusted her as before. Somehow I needed not only to clear her with the police but restore Uncle's full faith in her.

Uncle spoke in a tone thick with emotion, as though profoundly moved by something: “But Hideko’s circumstances are truly pitiable.” “If I were to die, what would become of things?” “Uncle, how could there possibly be such a thing as you passing away? And even if there were, I would protect Hideko.” Uncle offered no reply—did he disapprove of my protecting her? What a stark contrast to how he had previously hinted at wanting us married with such frequency. “Ah,” he continued with renewed intensity, “nothing in this world goes as one hopes—it’s truly a demon’s realm. Demons toy with mankind. I’ll leave everything to fate now—I won’t revise my will. Even if I did revise it, it’d be futile, for the demons would meddle again.”

Though I couldn't fully grasp the deeper meaning behind his words, there was no doubt he felt profound dissatisfaction with this world. Could my growing attachment to Hideko be what he meant by demonic interference? It seemed clear Uncle had wanted to revise his will to leave everything to Hideko but abandoned the idea because doing so would affect my inheritance rights. Though I wouldn't have minded—I did possess property inherited directly from my father—voicing this might have irritated him further. I vacillated silently, unable to muster even basic pleasantries. "Ah...sleepy again," Uncle murmured, settling into his bedding. "The doctor says sleeping's good—a promising sign. We'll talk more later. If you're going to Paris, go quickly." Leaving pained me, but sentiment had no place here. "Don't worry about anything, Uncle," I said before quietly exiting the room. With minimal preparations, I finally departed. What awaited me in Paris? I moved forward in a daze.

Chapter Seventy: The Silhouette Reflected in the Mirror What manner of man was this Mr. Paul Repell? I knew nothing of him—not even his profession. Though operating in near-fugue state from exhaustion and desperation—somehow I clung to this conviction: if only I could reach that man’s threshold through some miracle of proximity alone—Hideko might yet survive this snare of accusations closing around her throat like spider-silk garrote—yet with every other avenue sealed by circumstance’s cruel hand—meeting him became imperative beyond measure—a single fraying lifeline across this abyss of uncertainty.

With such resolve, I left the tower and arrived in London as night fell, but the last train had already departed. Since wasting even a single night was unthinkable in such circumstances, I pondered whether there was any work I could do here for Hideko’s sake—and that was when I recalled the lawyer Gonda Tokisuke.

It was strange I hadn’t recalled him until now. That he knew Hideko’s secrets and had not merely known them but actively devised plans for her was an established fact; under these circumstances, he would undoubtedly be laboring zealously for her sake. Moreover, being more resourceful than I, consulting him before departing for Paris was imperative. True, he was my rival in matters concerning Hideko—a romantic adversary—and while this aspect weighed uneasily on my mind, even evoking revulsion, having triumphed in this contest, I ought to show forbearance rather than resentment. Especially for Hideko’s sake, I could not indulge such trivial sentiments. However disagreeable the opponent might be, cooperation was unavoidable.

Though it was late at night, I went to his lodgings resolved to rouse him and talk until daybreak if needed. But he was absent. I checked his club too—he wasn't there either. I began suspecting he might have already rushed off somewhere for Hideko's sake like I had, but there was nothing to be done about an absent man. At both lodging and club, I left messages on my business cards' backs stating I urgently needed to meet him regarding critical business.

By the afternoon of the following day, I arrived in Paris and made my way to 29 Rue de la Cernière. The street lay in profound stillness, dominated by Number 29—a derelict mansion whose crumbling gate showed no trace of human passage, leaving one to wonder whether it housed men or foxes. Though I suspected Mr. Repell might have moved elsewhere years prior, I slipped through a side entrance and rapped on the gloomy front door. After some time emerged an attendant of about sixty, his garments as weathered as his features. In this district, even Mr. Repell himself seemed to be a recluse—how could such a man possibly aid Hideko across the Channel? For the first time, doubt crept into my mind, yet with no alternative, I simply inquired, “Is the master at home?” The attendant responded with curious formality: “That depends on the guest.” Having scrutinized me as though peering through my very bones, he demanded, “And who might you be?” I replied, “I’ve come from England with an introduction from one of Mr. Paul Repell’s acquaintances.” “England?” He sniffed. “Hardly distant. Our master receives visitors from Australia and the world’s farthest reaches.” Thus hinting at his employer’s global renown, he solemnly accepted my card and withdrew. To my surprise, I found myself ushered into a waiting room far sooner than expected.

The room’s interior stood in stark contrast to the dilapidated exterior—meticulously constructed, immaculately cleaned, and arrayed throughout with various mirrors. The arrangement seemed crafted with geometric precision; reflections compounded from mirror to mirror, making distant shadows visible—an unparalleled mechanism. This alone revealed the master was no ordinary man. Yet when I considered how my own figure pacing around admiring these mirrors might be reflected in his distant chamber, I realized he might even now be scrutinizing me.

Though it felt absurd to suddenly want to adjust my posture, I looked around again thinking that if my figure were visible from the master's chamber, his form must likewise be reflected here. The ceiling too had mirrors embedded here and there, and along the juncture where walls met ceiling—no, rather where walls transitioned into ceiling—ran a gap about one shaku wide encircling all four sides. This gap must surely serve as the passage through which shadows from outside this room pass. Yet no human-like figures appeared in any of the mirrors.

I couldn't maintain my formal posture and simply kept gazing at the countless reflections of varying hues across the mirrors when suddenly a human figure appeared in one reflection - a tall gentleman in traveling clothes with a square box about one shaku wide tucked under his arm, seemingly hurrying away. Unfortunately only his back was visible, making his face unrecognizable, yet he struck me as someone I'd surely seen before. Who on earth could that be? If only he'd turn this way, I thought anxiously while waiting - but he kept walking without approaching and soon disappeared from the mirror. The moment I felt disappointed, I suddenly noticed something and turned around myself - fortunately reflected in another mirror was the man's full frontal view. I was truly astonished - this was none other than Gonda Tokisuke.

Chapter Seventy-One: Childlike Face, Crane's White Hair Gonda Tokisuke, Gonda Tokisuke—though I had failed to find him when leaving England, to now witness him departing from this house was truly an uncanny stroke of fortune. Resolved to detain him even momentarily, I rushed out of the room—yet the reflection of his figure in the mirrors gave no indication of his actual location; the corridor stood utterly devoid of human presence, and when I descended to the garden and hastened to the gate itself, it appeared he had already vanished—leaving the surroundings steeped in desolate silence.

As for why he had come to this house—needless to say, it must have been for Hideko’s sake. But how had he known to rely on this Mr. Paul Repell? Even I had only learned of this after extraordinary circumstances—yet seeing this made clear he knew Hideko’s true origins more deeply than I did. He—like Anakawa Jinzou and Dr. Ōba Rensai—likely knew every detail of Hideko’s circumstances. Yet I—yet I—yes, the truth was I did not even know who Hideko truly was. Before she appeared at Ghost Tower—where had she lived? What had she been? When I reflected on it, my position felt like standing on air. To tell the truth, I did not even understand how this Mr. Paul Repell could save Hideko.

However, I told myself that once I met the master, everything would become clear, and returned to the room. After a short while, the same attendant returned and said, “The master is now free,” then led me deep into the mansion and ushered me into a chamber. This room differed greatly from the previous one—exquisitely constructed and refined, adorned with numerous antique vessels and cups. Within it sat an old man resembling an immortal sage, undoubtedly Mr. Paul. He embodied the very phrase “childlike face with crane-white hair”—though nearing seventy, his complexion showed extraordinarily robust vitality beneath his crown of pure white locks. Though no judge of physiognomy, I could discern this man carried both Jewish and Spanish heritage; he was certainly no pure Frenchman. Upon seeing me, he first wore a smile one might give a child and asked, “I understand you come recommended by an acquaintance—who might that be?”

As I hesitated over how best to answer him, I scrutinized Mr. Paul Repell’s face and found it truly uncanny—a sensation mirroring my first encounter with Hideko, whose excessive beauty had made me suspect she wore a mask. Observing this man’s visage now reignited that peculiar doubt: Could he be Hideko’s father? No—impossible. Had a man of such influence fathered her, how could he have remained oblivious to her myriad hardships? Her orphaned status had already revealed itself through countless circumstances.

While thinking this, I reluctantly replied, “Yes, I heard it from Anakawa Jinzou.” With an air of utter incomprehension, Mr. Repell said, “Hmm... Anakawa Jinzou? That name is as unfamiliar to my ears as your face is new to my eyes.” “I see.” “No, that’s a name I’ve never heard before,” said Mr. Repell, his demeanor suggesting he viewed me as someone not to be let off guard. In this critical moment, I altered my words: “Yes, that Anakawa is a close friend of Dr. Ōba Rensai.” “Ah! If it’s Dr. Ōba Rensai, now I understand,” said Mr. Repell. “Though I’ve had no word from him in years, he was a frequent visitor to my gate several years ago. If this is his introduction, I shall speak without reserve. Well now, how good of you to come—in such circumstances, there exists none in the wide world but myself who can provide fundamental salvation.”

Seeing him speak of “saving [her] from the root,” I wondered if he already knew my purpose. Somewhat unnerved, I haltingly said in a trembling tone, “In truth—as you seem aware—I also heard about Matsutani Hideko’s case from Dr. Ōba.” At this, the master replied as if recalling something: “Ah, Hideko—that beauty? No, no—her case was rather my own failure. My rescue was somewhat incomplete; I still worry at times whether lingering harm remains. After all, she was inherently beautiful—this made matters quite difficult—but I believe she’ll manage well enough under ordinary circumstances.” Here he broke off and studied my face intently. “You too have made an exceedingly difficult request—nearly identical to Hideko’s situation—and there are truly regrettable aspects that prevent me from exerting my full power. Yet you understand her case: this will be a fundamental salvation. You need not fear any cause for regret.” “As for Hideko, whatever circumstances she may have encountered since then, in any case, she must consider me her savior.”

“It is precisely because I think of you as my savior that I have traveled all this way to seek your salvation.” “Then let us promptly establish the terms and proceed accordingly.” “Though there may be some degree of success or failure, not even one in ten thousand attempts will result in complete failure when it comes to my methods.” Even within his thoroughly assured words, there was something that didn’t quite sit right with me. That there would be no failure in commencing the procedure—and that this master did not intend to lay hands directly upon my body in some manner—thinking this, I could not help but feel as though my very flesh were shrinking.

Chapter Seventy-Two: Once More in This World There was something about Mr. Repell's words that did not sit right with me. I had come intending to have him save Hideko, but now an uneasy thought arose—what if this were to lead to some unforeseen disaster? Yet seeing that Gonda Tokisuke had visited before me made it seem certain this master could indeed save Hideko. But how exactly had Gonda managed to plead his case here? As I thought, “If only I could learn that—it would greatly aid my investigation,” Mr. Repell murmured as if to himself: “How curious. Though I had not recalled Matsutani Hideko’s name in quite some time, today—after all this while—I hear it from two separate gentlemen.” Seizing the moment, I asked, “These two gentlemen—one being myself, and the other surely Gonda Tokisuke who just left this house? He is my acquaintance—what did he request of you regarding Hideko?” Mr. Repell’s expression suddenly turned grave. “No, I cannot answer that. Safeguarding the secrets of those who seek my aid is Paul Repell’s sacred calling. Even were your own kin to come afterward and ask what you requested of me, I would only reply that I know nothing of such matters.” I flushed slightly and promptly apologized for overstepping. Yet my trust in Mr. Repell deepened somewhat, and I found myself reconsidering—if this was possible, then perhaps he truly could save Hideko after all.

“Then, Mr. Repell—if I were to request your assistance, would you help me with any kind of case?” “Of course,” Mr. Repell continued solemnly, “but I do not accept any request until I have thoroughly heard the full circumstances from the client. If there is even the slightest concealment from me, then we must part ways.” I said, “Of course I will disclose all circumstances.” “In essence,” he replied, “the savior and the saved must become as an inseparable entity, sharing all interests completely. Therefore, absolute mutual trust between both parties is indispensable. Yet I still do not even know your name.” “Yes, my name is Marube Michikurou.”

“Judging by appearances, you are probably a British nobleman,” said Mr. Repell, “but as I do not ordinarily peruse peerage directories, I cannot estimate how much respect I should accord the surname Marube.” “I don’t particularly desire your respect.”

“Ah yes, ah yes—you seek not respect but salvation, I see. Considering this, have you violated the law through dueling? Or perhaps killed someone? That you come seeking my rescue suggests you risk imminent arrest.” “It is—a situation from which there is no legal escape.” “If that is the case, then your coming to me is truly fortunate—for there exists none in this world but myself who can provide salvation.”

That was truly a strange thing to say. How could he possibly save someone being pursued by the law? "But Mr. Repell—will you truly be able to save her?" "I will ensure not a single blemish remains—yes, I shall make her be reborn into a world of purity without sin or stain. For I grant an entirely new life." This notion of a "new life" matched what Jinzou had spoken of. He had indeed told me that there was none other than Mr. Paul who could grant Hideko a new life and save her as if reborn.

“However, Mr. Repell, the one to be saved is not myself.” “Oh—not yourself? Then who?” “The Matsutani Hideko I just mentioned.” Mr. Repell looked astonished. “Eh—Hideko again? Well now, I’ve never saved the same person twice before. Once saved, that should suffice for a lifetime—there should be no need to seek my salvation again.” “Then are you saying you cannot save someone twice?” “No, it’s not that—I can save someone two or three times over if needed.” “Then please save Hideko once more. She has fallen into an extraordinarily difficult position and reached a state where she is nearly beyond saving.” Mr. Repell sighed. “Ah, that is pitiable. I had thought her extraordinary circumstances were unparalleled in this world, but for her to fall into hardship again—what an unfortunate woman she must be.” “But really—there’s no reason she can’t be saved.” “How can she be saved—please tell me the method.”

Mr. Repell adopted a slightly more formal demeanor. “How to proceed? Well, that is my profession. But unless we first settle the matter of the fee, I cannot utter another word on the subject.” “I don’t care how much the fee is—but can you truly save her without fail?” “There’s no need for such earnest inquiries. Saving her is a trifling matter for my abilities—I can rescue her exactly as you wish. But in exchange, my fee is astonishingly high.” “Even if it’s high—are we talking tens of thousands of pounds?” Mr. Repell chuckled. “No, not that much—but I shall require three thousand pounds.”

Chapter Seventy-Three: Behind is a Dark Room

Facing this situation, I was not surprised by the high fee. If Hideko could truly be saved, then property meant nothing—I would not have hesitated to offer my very life. Such was my resolve. I agreed without the slightest hesitation. That said, three thousand pounds was by no means a small sum—compared to doctors' fees or lawyers' charges, it amounted to an exorbitant figure beyond all proportion. Even as I gave my consent, these thoughts lingered in my heart—had Mr. Repell perceived them? “It is indeed an exorbitant fee,” he continued. “Now, in terms of actual expenses, I could manage with far less. But rescuing people beyond the law’s reach carries considerable danger. At the slightest misstep, I myself draw scrutiny from detectives in those circles—there are numerous cases where investigators have posed as clients to entrap me. “That is why I set my fees so high that mere detectives could never afford them. No matter how fervent a detective might be, they cannot pay even a thousand. I may have already driven off several detectives through my fees alone. But you—though you are no detective in reverse—unless the payment is settled, I cannot advance our discussion a single step further.”

As for the transfer of the fee, I of course did not possess such a large sum on hand. Yet there was no lack of means to arrange it—I possessed a modest inheritance from my father, which had been entirely converted into cash per his dying instructions and entrusted to London banks to be invested to grow the capital. The amount had now grown to over ten thousand pounds, awaiting my use. Now was precisely the time to use it. Fortunately, here in Paris there existed a bank with which my uncle maintained close dealings—its president had once come to England at my uncle's invitation, where I had shared his company, and I had later visited Paris with my uncle and been entertained by this same president. If I spoke to him, though the sum was large—be it three thousand or five—he would surely advance the funds temporarily.

When I explained this plan to Mr. Repell, it turned out he had already been acquainted with the bank president. However, he strictly instructed me never to disclose to the president or anyone else that the money was to be paid to him. Naturally, this was not something to share with anyone. Just as I was finally preparing to leave, Mr. Repell lent me his carriage. The carriage was driven by the old attendant I had seen earlier handling reception duties—from which I inferred this man must be Mr. Repell's true confidant. It seemed Mr. Repell still harbored some suspicion that I might be a detective after all, and in truth was likely having his trusted man observe my behavior through this arrangement.

Before long, I went to the bank; I had come. With a resolute demeanor as if I had seen and conquered, everything proceeded smoothly, and within a short time, I had obtained the funds. Of course I would repay it with interest. The repayment period being no more than a week meant it was insufficient to boast of my creditworthiness. Then, upon returning to Mr. Repell’s residence, he withdrew to an adjoining room for a time—likely to hear from the driver about my conduct. Whether satisfied with the result or not, he returned before even ten minutes had passed. This time, he seemed more approachable than before, the tension in his face having relaxed somewhat. “Well, let us begin our work immediately. “This way,” was Mr. Repell’s first instruction. I followed Mr. Repell in response, being led to a more secluded inner room equipped with various mirrors. Smiling proudly, he said, “This is my study. From here, I can observe every visitor’s figure in its entirety.” He continued, “Before meeting you directly, I first examined your reflection in these mirrors and determined you posed no danger. “When you saw Gonda Tokisuke and hurried outside, your behavior seemed quite amateurish—nothing like a detective’s.”

Having anticipated matters would come to this, I was not particularly surprised, but as I still could not grasp what we were to do in this room, I asked, “Mr. Repell, shall I give you the payment here?” “No—you shall deliver the payment to a more secure location,” said Mr. Repell. “Even servants or anyone else might enter this room.” As he spoke, he retrieved two hand candles from a shelf and lit them. Though it was still daytime, I wondered why he needed hand candles, when presently he instructed, “Now take these and come with me,” pulling out two thick volumes from the bookshelf. Then, inserting his hand into the empty space left by the removed books and pressing what must have been a hidden button, he caused the bookcase to suddenly swing open like a door on both sides. The space beyond formed a darkroom. Truly, those engaged in clandestine work take extraordinary precautions, I thought with admiration. Even as I marveled at this, Mr. Repell entered the darkroom and called to me. I too followed him inside. With a sudden click, he seemed to press another hidden button somewhere, causing the bookshelf door to swing shut completely, restoring its original appearance. What connection could there be between saving Hideko and this darkroom? Mr. Repell and I stood facing each other in the darkroom.

Chapter Seventy-Four: Prior Form and Subsequent Form What did he intend by bringing me into this darkroom? I couldn't fathom his purpose in the slightest. Noticing my bewilderment, Mr. Repell commenced his explanation. "You've no conception how I mean to save Miss Matsutani Hideko. Within this chamber, I shall demonstrate the very method itself. Once witnessed, you'll comprehend everything - the manner of her prior salvation, her wretched state before intervention, and the full scope of Paul Repell's artistry."

Having heard this, I wanted him to show me his methods immediately. Above all, I desperately wanted to know what Hideko had been like before being saved by this man. Now that I thought I might learn her true origins and upbringing within this darkroom, my heart began racing. “This remains merely the entrance.” “Now proceed deeper.” Following his words, I swung the hand candle to illuminate our path. This indeed appeared to be a cellar entrance. Ahead lay stone steps descending into darkness. Though unnerved, I took the lead downward until reaching an iron door that stood implacably barred. Mr. Repell produced a comically small key for such a door and unlocked it. Inside lay an empty chamber spanning about ten tatami mats. Upon entering, Mr. Repell closed the door behind us and declared, “This is where I handle confidential matters. None save myself have ever come this far. The safe resides here as well.” His tone stopping just short of demanding payment, I produced his three thousand pounds and handed them over.

Strangely, this room was equipped with electric lights; Mr. Repell pressed the light switch and instantly illuminated the room as bright as day. I attempted to extinguish the hand candle, but Mr. Repell quickly interjected, “No, you mustn’t extinguish it yet—there are no electric lights beyond this point.” “There’s still more beyond this?” “Of course,” said Mr. Repell. When I looked where he pointed, there indeed was a second iron door on one wall—such depth of construction spoke of utmost caution. As he finished counting the fee’s gold coins and stored them in a corner safe, his smile broadened with satisfaction. “Three thousand pounds is no small sum. Truthfully, at my age, I’ve long wished to retire. For years I’ve accumulated funds, and with this payment, I’ve finally reached my intended savings. Having saved many souls and endured considerable peril until now, this shall be my final salvation. Should you return, Paul Repell will likely no longer reside here. I’ll purchase land in the countryside and live out my days in peaceful seclusion, untroubled by worldly storms—how restful that shall be.”

Having finished his reminiscences, he opened the second iron door and descended deeper with me. We appeared to have penetrated far underground here; the air felt unnervingly damp and unpleasant—as if we'd entered a grave's depths. This was nothing short of a human hell. To think Hideko's secrets were entombed in such a place—how I longed to extract them and expose them to daylight. Whether due to my nerves or not, even the hand candle's flame seemed feeble, rendering the surroundings inadequately discernible. Yet the space somehow formed a corridor-like structure, with cabinets lined up in rows on both sides. Each door bore affixed labels inscribed with cipher-like characters—their meaning entirely lost on me. Mr. Repell promptly took down a bundle of keys hanging on one wall, selected the sturdiest brass key from among them, and handed it to me. “Now compare the tags on these keys with the labels on the cabinets and search for the matching one. Once you find it, open that cabinet—that’s all you need to do.” I felt as though I were dreaming; without understanding why, I simply followed his instructions, examining each cabinet door on either side one by one until at last I found the one whose markings matched. “Now open that door with that key.”

What lay within this door? What would unfold upon opening it? Had I possessed foresight, I might have plunged my hand into burning flames rather than insert this key into the lock. Yet alas, I lacked such prescience. Though gripped by vague foreboding, I turned the key resignedly—for hesitation proved futile—and opened the door. Within stretched a space twelve feet wide and deep. Shelves lined the left wall; shelves lined the right wall too, alongside a smaller cabinet—a structure reminiscent of Buddhist altars. On the left shelf sat three plain wood boxes, each roughly one shaku square and flattened like oversized inkstone cases. The item Gonda Tokisuke had tucked under his arm earlier might well have been such a box, I mused.

There was nothing inherently startling about this scene, yet a bone-deep chill surged through my entire being, leaving me unable to suppress my trembling. Mr. Repell too spoke in a voice betraying unsteady nerves: "Here lie Hideko's prior form and subsequent form." This time he himself began opening the altar-like door. Though I was not a man easily daunted, my apprehension swelled beyond comprehension—whatever transpired now must surely herald the revelation of some dreadful secret, poised at the boundary between darkness and light in human existence. Mr. Repell's next words filled me with terror—terror yet laced with desperate anticipation—as my body stiffened from within the depths of my chest, leaving me scarcely able to draw breath.

Chapter 75: Wax Mask of the Dead The interior of the altar-like door was arranged much like the left shelf, with two plain wood boxes placed inside. I still couldn't grasp what these boxes contained—only that they felt unnerving. After briefly comparing both shelves, Mr. Repell seemed to reach a decision. "I shall first show you the prior form," he declared. "This will make my methods clear, and you will comprehend how I am indeed one who grants new life." Having said this, he removed the box from the left shelf. “Now, open this box and look inside.” I lacked the courage to open it myself. “Yes,” I replied, yet hesitated. Impatiently, Mr. Repell said, “Then I shall open it for you.” He selected a key from the bundle in my hand and snapped, “See—the tag on this key matches the symbol on this box. Can you not comprehend even this?” With that, he opened the box. Given how meticulously it had been stored, there was no doubt it concealed extraordinary secrets. Whether demons or serpents lurked within, I peered inside fearfully.

The first thing that caught my eye was white cloth—white cloth wrapping the item within. Mr. Repell reached into the box, removed the cloth, and raised the object beneath. It seemed a pillar stood inside the box—when closing the lid, one would lay this post flat; when opening it, one could raise it upright. What was this raised object? A woman’s face. For a moment, I suspected it might be a severed head, but it was not—it was a waxwork mask. Since ancient times, people have preserved the dead’s faces by casting them into masks termed “wax masks of the dead.” This waxwork was precisely that. Whose face it was remained unclear, but a face it undeniably was. At first glance, I thought I recognized it, but upon closer inspection, I did not. Though her rounded cheeks and overall features marked her as a fair beauty, there was a lack of vitality—as though recovering from illness—or rather, one might say she appeared haggard.

Mr. Repell then took out a small amount of hair from the box—likely remains from a corpse. Its color had a greenish cast with a faint blackish tinge—utterly ordinary hair by worldly standards. “What do you make of this mask and this hair?” “I don’t particularly think anything of it.”

Mr. Repell, seeming somewhat dejected, tilted his head slightly and murmured “Hmm?” before removing the mask from its stand and handing it to me. “Examine the inside of the mask closely,” he instructed. I examined the back of the mask as directed and found an affixed label bearing an inscription. Reading those characters would surely shock anyone. It read “Wata Natsuko,” followed by “Indicted on charges of murder, found guilty, and sentenced to life imprisonment.” The next entry stated: “July 25, 1896: Introduced by Mr. Ōba Rensai; brought here by Mr. Gonda Tokisuke.” The text further noted: “It is said that [the individual] was released from prison on the eleventh day of the same month and year due to certain circumstances.”

Wata Natsuko was the adopted daughter who murdered Wata Okon, the previous owner of Ghost Tower. In 1896, she had died of illness in prison, and her remains were buried in a corner of Ghost Tower’s garden, where a stone grave still stood. As I had previously recounted, not only had Hideko frequently visited this grave, but Takanawatari Nagazo—also an adopted child of Okon—had often lingered near it. The grave’s surface bore the date July 11 as the day of her death. Yet here it was recorded that Natsuko had been released from prison on that very same day, with Gonda Tokisuke bringing her here on the twenty-fifth of that month—what manner of discrepancy was this?

I shouted. “Mr. Repell! Mr. Repell! You’ve been deceived! It’s utterly impossible for the murderess Wata Natsuko to have been brought here—her corpse lies buried underground, with a gravestone now erected above it!” “Of course there’s a gravestone erected, but that’s merely the surface of things. Dig up that grave and see for yourself—you’ll find nothing but an empty coffin buried there.” I exclaimed, “What are you saying?” “No—this O-Natsu once died, and through the new life I bestowed, she was revived. The dead O-Natsu’s visage is evident in this wax mask, but I shall now show you the face she bore upon resurrection.” Before he finished speaking, Mr. Repell removed another plain wood box from within the altar-like structure and raised an identical wax mask through the same process. “Now behold this—all becomes clear without words. Well, Mr. Marube, do you comprehend?” I looked again at the face—this one was Matsutani Hideko; her countenance had been perfectly reproduced in a waxen mask.

Chapter Seventy-Six: True Identity Of course, Hideko’s lovely, vivid beauty could never have been fully captured in a waxwork mask. Compared to the real Hideko, this mask differed as starkly as a gemstone beside a pebble. Yet it undeniably bore her likeness—no human craftsmanship could have rendered her features upon another object more faithfully than this. But why would Hideko’s wax mask be preserved alongside that of Wata Natsuko—a murderess who had died in prison—and brought before my eyes by this doctor? Was he claiming Natsuko to be Hideko’s predecessor and Hideko her successor? Though his words seemed to suggest as much, the notion defied comprehension. How could Natsuko—rotting in her cell—be identical to Hideko, who lived as my future bride? How could the vicious creature who slaughtered her foster mother share flesh with this paragon of womanly virtue? I turned urgently to Mr. Repell with my demand.

“What possible connection could there be between Hideko’s wax mask and Natsuko’s wax mask?” Unfazed and unshaken, Mr. Repell replied with even greater composure, his expression brimming with pride: “Now you must understand my skill. In matters such as these, I, Paul Repell, have mastered realms beyond the reach of today’s scholars. That a single face can be so transformed through electricity, chemistry, medical surgery—scarcely anyone believes it. Not even the government believes it. And precisely because they do not believe it, my profession has remained unimpeded until now.” “Then are you saying Hideko and Natsuko are the same woman?” “Of course it’s one person. Hideko is none other than Natsuko.” “After Natsuko left prison, she could not show her face in society as she was, so she came to me for help. I gave her Hideko’s current form—changing not only her name but her very appearance itself.”

I was overcome by sheer terror and staggered two or three steps backward without reason—yet upon reflection, this was too preposterous a tale. Soon my fear turned to fury, and I shouted, “Enough of your deceptions! Who could ever believe such nonsense as Hideko and Natsuko being the same person?” With a demeanor that nearly compelled me to seize and throttle Paul Repell, I advanced forward again. “Villain! Villain!” involuntarily spilled from my lips. Mr. Repell looked at me with a suspicious expression. “My, my—you mean to say you never even knew Hideko’s true identity? That you came to me wanting to save Natsuko—no, Hideko—without knowing they’re the same person?” “In that case,” he continued, “I shouldn’t have carelessly revealed this secret—I should have verified it with Hideko first.”

“Lies! Lies! There isn’t a shred of doubt that Natsuko died in prison!” Even as I declared this, not a trace of deceit showed on Mr. Repell’s face. He appeared every bit the man steadfastly adhering to facts, his innermost convictions laid bare. Mr. Repell declared in a resolute tone, “Since I’ve already divulged this much, the secret stands exposed. There remains no choice but to explain in detail until you fully grasp how Hideko and Natsuko are one and the same. First, let us return to the vault room—we shall discuss this there.” Carrying both wax masks still in their boxes, he strode back the way we had come without glancing at me. I had no choice but to follow—my feet scarcely touching the ground as I staggered after him. Upon reentering the vault room, Mr. Repell relit the electric lamp and said, “First examine these two masks thoroughly in this light. Then my explanation will become clearer.” He brought out a small table from the corner and quietly placed both masks upon it—evidently preparing to elaborate everything in detail.

Chapter Seventy-Seven: Variation Within Identity Under the electric light, I meticulously examined the two wax masks placed on the table—Natsuko’s face and Hideko’s face. Which could be deemed superior in beauty? Natsuko was fuller-figured than Hideko—round-faced where Hideko was oval-shaped. The round face bore a dimple at the chin; though a poet once claimed chin dimples surpassed cheek dimples, Hideko’s cheek dimple did not pale in comparison to Natsuko’s chin dimple. Natsuko appeared youthful and dewy with charm, while Hideko exuded a polished, ethereal beauty. Though Natsuko’s hairline was more refined, her mouth could not match Hideko’s. Of course, they were entirely different individuals—yet prolonged scrutiny revealed resemblances. At first glance utterly distinct, their shared features grew more apparent with observation until one might mistake them for sisters.

Mr. Repell took another lock of hair from Hideko’s wax mask box and arranged it on the table. “Take a look at this,” he said. “As you can see here, the hair of both differs—Natsuko’s has a greenish cast with a darker shade, while Hideko’s leans golden with a lighter tone—yet their luster remains identical. The thickness and softness of each strand show no variation whatsoever. If someone were to close their eyes and run their fingers through it, they’d swear it’s the same hair.” As he spoke, he closed his own eyes and began stroking both locks in comparison. An indescribable emotion surged through my chest, bringing me perilously close to tears. “But Doctor—” I started to argue, but the rest of my words lodged in my throat.

Mr. Repell settled calmly into his seat and said, “I shall explain in detail—first listen carefully. My brain appears to have developed deductive faculties that swiftly identify correlations among myriad events—whether one matter stems from another’s consequence or reveals someone’s aberration. Thus I naturally enjoy reading crime reports to form personal interpretations, having rarely erred thus far. Take Natsuko’s murder case—I first read of it in British newspapers, formed my own conclusions early on, and remained attentive to subsequent developments. When news later arrived of her prison death, that very Natsuko soon came seeking salvation at my doorstep.”

Having said this—perhaps to organize his thoughts—he closed his eyes briefly before continuing: “As I stated earlier, my work inherently aligns completely with my clients’ interests. I cannot commence any task until they disclose every detail to me. Regarding this matter, I thoroughly questioned both the principal herself and Mr. Gonda Tokisuke—the lawyer who brought her here—about their entire history. Though both attempted partial concealment, I had already discerned most truths through my observations. By targeting critical points in my inquiries, I ultimately compelled full disclosure. Once I recount their testimony and my subsequent actions, even someone as skeptical as you will find no grounds for doubt. I firmly believe Natsuko and Hideko are indeed the same person.”

As he laid out his reasoning with such methodical precision, I began to think that disbelief might soon become untenable. Perceiving this faint shift in my resolve, Mr. Repell declared, “Let me first explain my work. When I thoroughly examined Natsuko’s face, I found her beauty so striking that reshaping it felt almost sacrilegious. To transform her into a wretched crone would have been simple, but such an act would have defaced nature’s artistry—a transgression against heaven itself. I resolved to preserve her natural splendor while making her appear wholly reborn as another. Yet paradoxically, this very ambition constrained my craft—for ordinary faces, I could render them unrecognizable with ease—but here lay the challenge: to reshape beauty without diminishing it; to seek divergence within similarity rather than difference within difference.” His voice lowered slightly as he added, “An impossible task by all accounts... yet I achieved it.” He gestured at the masks with a surgeon’s pride before conceding, “Still, undeniable resemblances linger—the nose, for instance, proved immutable.” “If altered,” he continued, “it would inevitably appear inferior; the alignment of teeth being no exception.” His fingers traced the wax contours as if lecturing a recalcitrant student. “To rearrange features that have attained true natural perfection without marring that perfection—no sculptor, however skilled, could achieve this.” He lifted both masks toward the lamplight with theatrical flourish. “Now examine the nose shapes of both masks—where exactly do you see any difference?”

“There is none,” I could only answer. Indeed, no matter how I looked, there was no difference. “There—you see?” said Mr. Repell. “The same applies here. Though teeth remain hidden behind closed lips and cannot be compared—if they could, even you would have no choice but to accept my words. Now given these circumstances, while one might say I’ve ‘reborn’ her entirely, anyone who truly knew Natsuko’s face might still harbor doubts upon seeing Hideko’s—even if not outright recognizing them as the same person. This alone has troubled me until now. But if you’ll acknowledge this single flaw, my skill shines through all other aspects. Even if you brought another beauty of equal standing and demanded I remake this face identically, I doubt I could reproduce such precision again. You ask how one reshapes a living human’s face? With masks? By carving flesh? Well—those who rely on masks or chisel bone are mere amateurs. What lies beyond their crude methods is Paul Repell’s secret art—a realm even scholars have yet to penetrate.”

Chapter Seventy-Eight: The Practical Benefits of Invention “Had today’s scholars devoted themselves to researching what I have, they could remake human faces. Yet they prioritize elevating their reputations—dabbling in superficial studies while avoiding the resolve to isolate themselves from society and devote themselves to scholarship unto death. Thus, in my specialized craft, they cannot match me. Were I as fame-hungrous as they, I would announce this invention to the world. Proclaim it an unprecedented breakthrough! A monumental leap for science! Crowds would kneel before me; medical journals worldwide would vie to print my portrait. But I despise such things. Rather than flaunt my name in the jealousy-ridden academic world and endure petty rivalries, I prefer to quietly reap the practical benefits of my invention. By keeping this technique secret—known only to myself—clients inevitably emerge through whispered referrals. People like you, Gonda Tokisuke, Wata Natsuko… Fifteen or thirty such souls seek me out yearly. And from them, I typically earn twice what any reputable doctor or scholar might.”

Mr. Repell held forth like a man bursting with intellectual fervor, as though he had long awaited someone to hear his diatribe. My mind whirled like a tempest, thoughts unanchored—I could muster no rebuttal to his words. He continued: “Modern scholars form insular cliques—alumni from the same schools or those sharing narrow aims—forging shadowy factions through backroom alliances. They despise outsiders! Any trifling discovery from their cabal they praise to the skies, trumpeting it as revolutionary while scheming to monopolize acclaim. But let an outsider like myself achieve something? They drown it in scorn until its credibility crumbles. Were I—a self-taught isolate—to present this invention among their ranks, yes, briefly I’d be lionized in global papers and journals! Yet the higher my name rises, the more their suspicion festers. First they’d brand me a charlatan, sabotage my methods’ practical application. Failing that, their cabal would claim *they* perfected this technique before me—that *I* stole *their* work! Some would even decry my art as a tool for criminals to reinvent themselves, endangering society—until destroying me becomes their holy crusade.”

“While some of my phrasing may be hyperbolic,” Repell continued, lowering his tone slightly, “it’s undeniable that today’s academic world leans in this direction. If society wishes me to publicly disclose this secret technique, it must first reform academia to value truth more earnestly. As things stand, even with patent protections in place, an invention like mine remains too perilous to reveal. Thus, I cannot divulge my work’s full nature to anyone—save you, and even then only in terms a layman might grasp. Half my method relies on electricity; the other half on chemical agents. Most scholars could eradicate human hair at its roots using electricity—but none have researched its practical application as thoroughly as I. By my technique, it’s simple to wither all scalp hair and render the skin indistinguishable from facial skin. Permanently elongating or contracting muscles poses little difficulty either. Now listen closely: Wata Natsuko originally had remarkably long eyebrows that nearly met at the center. I shortened both ends to create Hideko’s brows. Compare the masks if you doubt me—the length differs, but they’re fundamentally the same. Next, observe the hairlines. Natsuko’s dipped elegantly at the center—a true mark of beauty—but I regrettably excised this feature, adjusting its symmetry to form Hideko’s hairline. Hers is ordinary by comparison—no hallmark of beauty—a minor flaw in my execution, though still superior among common hairlines. To compensate, I enhanced her hair’s luster instead. Look at Hideko’s hair color—” “It’s precisely like the goddesses of old—far surpassing Natsuko’s heavy hue. Though that darker shade suited her round face, without lightening it, she’d lack that ethereal, divine beauty. Now, as for altering hair color—this is something society’s women agonize over their entire lives yet never grasp. But for Paul Repell? A trivial matter. Merely modifying hair’s fundamental properties draws over one distinguished client daily these days.”

Chapter 79: A Glimmer of Hope Mr. Repell continued: “To alter hair color, ordinary methods employ dyes—anyone can do that. For a scholar of my standing to research such crude techniques would be shameful. A method requiring repeated dyeing as hair grows is neither skill nor science. My approach uses chemical injections to alter the pigmentation at the hair’s root—a fundamental solution. Once modified, the color remains consistent no matter how often hair regenerates or grows. One treatment suffices for life. One might say it’s nature’s handiwork rather than human craft. However, difficulty varies: lightening dark pigments is far harder than darkening light ones. Miss Hideko’s hair required extensive effort to lighten, but having received ample compensation, I’ve no complaints.”

“Next is facial structure. First, compare these facial forms and judge for yourself whether my words ring true. I previously developed a body-slimming method through animal trials—achieved via pharmaceutical agents. A specific compound administered with meat during meals—not immediately effective, but over months, plump bodies slenderize and round faces become oval, all without health risks. Thus Natsuko’s round face transformed into Hideko’s oval visage through this means. Now the mouth: Natsuko’s lips were a veritable wellspring of charm—a pity to alter—but unavoidable. I slightly tightened her upper lip’s shape and subtly contracted the muscles at both corners for taut definition. Ordinary physicians cannot manipulate muscles thus, but through electrical manipulation—effortless for me—dimples vanish or form: contracted muscles create hollows; relaxed ones flatten them. Though I considered my work complete after modifying Natsuko’s hair color, hairline, brows, lips and cheeks, I realized leaving her chin dimple unchanged risked exposure. Thus I erased it and crafted a new dimple on her cheek.” “This marked the procedure’s grand finale.”

“Through my surgical procedures, Wata Natsuko—represented in the first facial model—was reborn as Matsutani Hideko in the second. No one who sees them could possibly recognize them as the same person. Yet when comparing Natsuko’s natural beauty—crafted by divine artistry—with my refined version of Hideko’s, which do you suppose prevails? Natsuko’s beauty was peerless in its class, yet Hideko’s surely occupies an equally unmatched tier. With this, I believe I’ve evaded accusations that Paul Repell defaced nature’s artistic masterpiece. If forced to distinguish between them, one might say Natsuko surpasses in loveliness over classical beauty, while Hideko excels in beauty over mere charm. One embodies innocent, unadorned splendor; the other, beauty honed to its utmost perfection. Despite these differences, scrutinizing their facial models should convince you they share the same essence. Well now, Mr. Marube—do you still doubt?” “To claim that Natsuko and Hideko are entirely separate individuals—why, there remains not even a shred of doubt!”

In a triumphant tone, Mr. Repell concluded his lengthy exposition. How wretched I felt! That Matsutani Hideko—whom I had believed peerless in beauty and resolved to make my future wife—was in truth Wata Natsuko, a woman stained with foster-mother murder, interred alive within prison walls! What cruel fate was this? Her face might retain its beauty, but her heart's ugliness now lay exposed. To think she had concealed such vileness while deceiving even my uncle—what unparalleled audacity! A born deceiver, perfected in artifice. Could it truly be that Hideko was Natsuko transformed?

Though the two faces appeared entirely different, upon closer inspection they were undeniably identical. Aligned with Mr. Repell’s explanations and compared side by side—alas!—they left no room for dispute. Tears blurred my vision as I stared at the wax masks, an indescribable despair surging through my chest. Yet upon reflection, a single glimmer of hope remained: while the second face was doubtless a transformation of the first, there existed no concrete proof that the original belonged to Wata Natsuko. If the second was Hideko, then perhaps the first had always been Hideko’s true visage—never Wata Natsuko’s at all.

I called out urgently to Mr. Repell—“But Doctor—where’s your proof that Case One is Wata Natsuko? She merely came to you under that name! Either she coincidentally used a code name matching a murderess’s identity or deliberately adopted that notorious title to hide her true self—a nuance surely beyond your comprehension!”

Chapter Eighty: A Thousandfold Burden The second facial model and the first were indeed the same person as you claimed—this much admitted no dispute. Yet there remained not a shred of evidence proving that first model was truly the murderess Wata Natsuko. I refused to accept that Matsutani Hideko could be that killer. Whatever proofs existed, I resolved to contest them with every fiber of my being, to subject each claim to merciless scrutiny. Yet when I weighed all that had transpired, your words bore the weight of a thousand ingots. My own arguments stood on foundations of sand.

After entering Ghost Tower, I had heard descriptions of Wata Natsuko's appearance multiple times from villagers—her round face, long eyebrows, and dimpled chin—all of which perfectly matched the first facial model. Moreover, it was said that when Natsuko killed Okon, the flesh of her left hand had been bitten down to the bone—a wound of such severity would surely remain to this day. If Hideko were truly Natsuko, that scar should be on her hand. But did Hideko's hand actually bear such a scar? Wait—her left hand was always concealed beneath an unusually long glove. O-Ura had repeatedly suspected a secret lay beneath that glove, even once seizing it and exclaiming she had finally uncovered the truth.

I had indeed heard how enraged Hideko became when her secret was exposed—so much so that she had even threatened to kill O-Ura. At that time, even when she came to me, she had skillfully concealed her left hand with a handkerchief. If there were no horrifying scar of evidence on that left hand, why would she go to such lengths to hide it? With this alone, my last remaining glimmer of hope seemed to vanish entirely. When Takanawatari Nagazo first visited, Torai Fujin had shown extreme fear and hastily made Hideko flee—could this have been out of concern that Nagazo might uncover her true nature as Wata Natsuko? Though Hideko frequently visited Natsuko’s grave, might this have been to perpetuate the belief in Natsuko’s death as absolute truth? Or perhaps she harbored some inner resolve, swearing oaths before her own grave? This time, Nagazo had sent a letter to my uncle exposing Hideko’s origins, causing him profound shock—and when Hideko could no longer deny it, she had confessed. Was this admission truly about her identity as Wata Natsuko? While these remained conjectures, I myself had witnessed additional details firsthand.

Why would Matsutani Hideko have known how to wind Ghost Tower’s clock? If she were Wata Natsuko, it would have made perfect sense—but without that identity, there was no reason for such knowledge. Her extensive familiarity with the tower’s secrets aligned entirely with Wata Natsuko, who had been raised from childhood as the foster daughter of Okon, the tower’s former owner. The recent discovery of Hideko’s garments alongside prison-issue women’s clothing in a spider farm chamber had further corroborated this. If Hideko was indeed Natsuko, there remained nothing to question. Only as Natsuko would she have endured Anakawa Jinzou’s repeated extortions; only as Natsuko would she have despised Torai Fujin—whether sister or some relation—yet found herself powerless to expel the woman from her proximity.

Only Anakawa Jinzou’s act of directing me to this doctor’s premises had initially seemed somewhat inexplicable—yet upon proper consideration, it became clear. He had been thoroughly coerced by me; judging that his sole path of escape lay in revealing Hideko’s true identity to disillusion me, he reluctantly sent me here. He must have concluded that even if I learned she was a murderess, I would not persist in loving Hideko, coercing others for her sake, or invoking legal power on her behalf. Were Hideko not Natsuko, Anakawa would never have urged me so insistently to go to Paris.

As I turned these thoughts over in my mind, I reproached myself for my obtuseness—how had I never realized until now that Hideko was Wata Natsuko? Evidence of Hideko being Natsuko manifested everywhere. Blinded by love's delusion, how could I have failed to perceive such glaring truths? Overwhelmed by it all, my chest swelled with resentment beyond despair—a visceral urge to claw at my own flesh consumed me. Though Mr. Paul Repell kept explaining something emphatically, none of it reached my ears; I had utterly failed to comprehend his words.

Chapter Eighty-One: Old Newspaper I had completely failed to catch Mr. Repell’s words, so I requested he repeat them once more; apparently, he had been thoroughly explaining that the first facial model was indeed Wata Natsuko. Without responding, Mr. Repell went to the corner of the room, retrieved what appeared to be an old newspaper, and silently placed it before me. I examined it wordlessly—as expected, it was a London newspaper from several years ago containing an article about Wata Natsuko’s trial. Within the article was a portrait labeled “The Old Woman Killer Wata Natsuko—Latest Photograph.” Though her face appeared almost childishly youthful upon closer inspection, its identity with the first facial model was indisputable.

I couldn’t muster even a grunt—stunned beyond words, I unconsciously rose from my chair. There remained not a sliver of doubt: Hideko was Natsuko transformed. Some stubborn part of me still resisted acceptance, yet with evidence this irrefutable, denial proved impossible. My reluctance stemmed from my own foolish sentimentality and lingering attachment. *What man clings to delusion like this?* I rebuked myself fiercely, then cursed inwardly: *You murderous witch—how deftly you masqueraded as a gentlewoman, deceiving both my uncle and me! No longer shall I fall for your schemes.*

“Well then,” said Mr. Repell in a mocking tone, “has your delusion lifted at last?” “Yes—completely lifted,” I answered. “Not a shred of doubt remains.” “Then I shall recount how Hideko—no, *Natsuko*—came to this house,” he corrected himself sharply, settling me back into the chair with a calming gesture before launching into his explanation. “First compose yourself and listen.” “Omitting extraneous details—it was early July 1896 when British lawyer Gonda Tokisuke visited me bearing a letter from Dr. Ōba Rensai. I had known of Mr. Gonda through newspaper accounts recalling his vigorous defense of the murderess Wata Natsuko.” “His inquiry concerned whether I could completely remake a beauty’s face to appear unrecognizable—the cost involved and whether such secrecy could endure indefinitely.”

“Of course, I answered all points satisfactorily and stated that none who have passed through my hands have ever been exposed again.” “No, this is not mere self-aggrandizement. Since inventing this procedure, countless individuals—prison escapees, legal fugitives—have received new lives through me. Their facial models now fill both sides of the vault you saw earlier. Among them are British, French, Russians, Americans—even Australians—nearly every nationality. All now live safely as entirely different persons. The most extreme case? A man sentenced to death escaped during his appeal, received my salvation, fabricated impeccable credentials within a year, and was promptly employed as a prison doctor at the very institution that once held him.”

This certainly referred implicitly to Ōba Rensai—had he too once been sentenced to death? From this, it seemed Mr. Paul Repell himself might have been one who granted himself new life through such methods. For inventions like these could not first be tested on others' bodies; one had to experiment on oneself, thereby demonstrating to the criminal underworld how to slip through the legal net. Contemplating this, affixing the honorific "Mr." to his name felt somehow repugnant.

“You may find it strange that my methods remain undisclosed despite having saved so many on such a scale,” said Mr. Repell, “but I’ve taken every conceivable precaution.” “This is precisely why I refuse all requests until clients bare their secrets to me without reservation. Once they’ve confessed their sins and surrendered both their original and transformed facial models, they become utterly in my thrall—incapable of exposing my affairs without destroying themselves. Thus, my professional secrets have been guarded as ferociously as their own lives. Ah—I’ve digressed. Let me now recount what followed Gonda Tokisuke’s arrival.”

Chapter Eighty-Two: Beautiful Boy Mr. Repell continued thus: "Since I had answered that I could remake a woman's face in any manner desired, Gonda Tokisuke was greatly pleased and departed, saying he would bring her soon and entrusting the matter to me. About two weeks later, a British newspaper reported that the murderess Wata Natsuko had died in prison. Upon seeing this, I naturally recalled Gonda and pondered various possibilities, forming numerous conjectures. Then, roughly another two weeks later, Gonda returned—this time accompanied by a boy."

“Though initially told of a beauty’s arrival, I grew suspicious upon seeing what appeared to be a beautiful boy. Yet closer inspection revealed undeniable feminine beauty—a woman disguised as a man. Her prison-shorn hair made her too unsightly as herself, hence this masquerade—or so I initially thought. But deeper motives existed. At that moment, Mr. Gonda addressed me: ‘This youth is Miss Matsutani Hideko, whom I previously requested.’” I had listened casually, but when the time came to finalize the agreement for the procedure, I turned to Mr. Gonda and insisted: “I cannot proceed without full disclosure of the client’s background. First, Mr. Gonda—the name ‘Matsutani Hideko’ will not suffice.” “It must be under her real name—Wata Natsuko,” I retorted sarcastically, striking at the heart of the matter. Even Mr. Gonda was startled by this.

“Seeing he could no longer deceive me,” Mr. Repell continued, “Gonda confessed: ‘She is indeed Wata Natsuko—but I implore you to keep this secret.’ When I gave my assurance, he departed, leaving only Natsuko with me. From her I later learned the full circumstances: She had long contemplated escape after confiding in Gonda and securing his promise to facilitate it, though delays ensued from lacking opportune moments. Then Dr. Ōba Rensai—then serving as prison physician—aligned with Gonda’s scheme, declaring he had devised an excellent plan. He brought an elderly nurse under his employ who relayed the conspiracy’s particulars to Natsuko. Following their instructions, she feigned illness and requested an examination. As Ōba conducted this assessment, he gravely declared—despite no external symptoms—that she suffered critical cardiac risks, promptly admitting her to the prison hospital.”

“The plan was to make Natsuko appear dead and carry her out from the prison hospital. They administered an extremely dangerous drug—a narcotic made from an Indian plant called Granil that exerts extraordinary effects on the human body. A certain dosage causes instant death, while altering the dosage induces a death-like state where pulse and breathing cease entirely. After forty to fifty hours, one revives as if sobering from drunkenness. The margin between revival and permanent death hinges on an infinitesimal difference in dosage. If the user had an undetected physical weakness unknown even to physicians, even a revival dosage would fail to resuscitate them, leaving them truly dead. Though I taught Rensai about this drug, he later applied it repeatedly in practice and appears to have surpassed me in dosage calibration.”

“Natsuko appeared to be a woman of considerable courage; she swallowed that dangerous drug without flinching and fell into a deathlike state. As it was the height of July’s scorching heat, Gonda Tokisuke used the pretext that the corpse must be buried immediately to prevent rapid decomposition. Through external lobbying and no small amount of bribery, he ultimately obtained permission to retrieve the body from the hospital for burial elsewhere. They carried it out under the guise of interring it promptly in Ghost Tower’s garden—but in truth, whether due to precise dosage or as planned, she revived and came to me.”

“Given these circumstances, Natsuko couldn’t step outside in her original form. Though her hair had grown quite long by the time she left the hospital, we had no choice but to disguise her as a boy when bringing her to me—as I explained, we cut it short. During her stay with me, it grew long again, and we trimmed and placed it in the first facial model’s box as you’ve seen.”

Chapter Eighty-Three: The Lamp of a Lifetime

Mr. Repell continued speaking. "As I mentioned earlier regarding the grown-out hair, its color changed through the drug’s effects, and in time, through my surgical procedures, her entire facial structure became that of a completely different person." "However, during that period, Gonda Tokisuke visited Hideko twice—each time in my presence when allowing their meetings. His purposes were twofold: to confirm the progress of my surgical procedures and to discuss Hideko’s future conduct." “Of course, he marveled at my surgical work no less than others—he exclaimed that Hideko’s face had become utterly unrecognizable. Following discussions, it was decided Hideko would first travel to America to establish some measure of status and credentials before returning here. On his next visit, Gonda prepared letters of introduction addressed to American lawyers and politicians and handed them to Hideko, declaring no British woman crossing to America had ever carried such comprehensive letters. He then encouraged her: ‘This will not be a solitary journey—an experienced companion will accompany you, so there’s no need for unease.’ This ‘companion’ was the elderly nurse who had aided Hideko’s prison escape under Ōba Rensai’s command at the hospital—her real name unknown, but arranged to adopt the pseudonym ‘Madam Torai.’”

Thus, it became clear that Torai Fujin had become Hideko’s attendant from that time onward, clarifying their relationship. Mr. Repell continued: “Yet Hideko showed no trace of unease, answering, ‘America has long been a country I favor—it will feel like returning home.’ Mr. Gonda added, ‘For one as accomplished as you in reading, writing, and music, any destination becomes akin to home.’ Shortly thereafter, they departed my premises for America. The beauty of her appearance at that moment astonished even me—a testament to my surgical skill. Though faint traces of resemblance lingered to Wata Natsuko, who had arrived in the guise of a beautiful boy with cropped hair, she now appeared wholly transformed—a being granted new life without reservation.”

“Though she had been reborn entirely as another person—so thoroughly that I believed she would never again transgress the law—it seems criminals are inherently fashioned to commit crimes by nature. Now she has violated the law once more, forcing me to remake her face anew? What a cursed fate this woman bears! But critiquing such matters lies outside my profession. I merely fulfill your request to grant her new life once again. Bring her here at your convenience whenever you wish.”

Mr. Repell’s words ended there, but I could not comprehend how to respond. At this moment, I truly wished my feelings might be understood—that this woman whom I had revered as the model of womanhood and human virtue, whom I had worshipped day and night striving to purify my heart by her example, was in truth a murderess and jailbreaking monster. Could the world hold another shock so utterly unforeseen? It felt as though the lamp of my lifetime had been extinguished in an instant, plunging me into darkness. Until now, no matter how much evidence piled up, I refused to believe Hideko could commit evil—I would have fought the entire world for her sake. Yet now I must stand first to denounce her, to condemn her. Knowing her true nature clarifies everything: only such a vile woman would scheme relentlessly to become my uncle’s adopted daughter. Her purpose was singular—my uncle, as prosecutor, had demanded the death penalty for Wata Natsuko’s crimes. Without reflecting on her own guilt, she resented him alone, infiltrating his trust to exact revenge. The “secret mission” she occasionally mentioned? Nothing but vengeance against him. This is why she visits Natsuko’s grave—to reinvigorate each morning the bitterness of her death sentence and stoke undying hatred. How terrifyingly venomous her resolve! With that poisoned heart, she subtly incited me—urging me to aid her hidden purpose—while narrating Natsuko’s story as another’s tale or probing how vehemently my uncle had advocated execution. So many clues align! Now she has achieved her goal, escalating to poisoning my uncle—all while I, blind fool that I was, rushed about desperate to protect her. My idiocy has reached its pitiful limit. Why hadn’t I noticed until now?

Chapter Eighty-Four: The Final Word Though I had grown utterly disgusted with my own foolishness and the impurity of Hideko's origins, the affection rooted deep in my heart would not vanish so easily—only regret remained, only pity. I felt as though a jewel had slipped from my grasp, and suddenly my entire existence had become desolate and vulnerable. Ah—I should never have loved someone like her! Had I not loved her at all—even upon learning her origins and being shocked—I would not have fallen into such despair…

“How regrettable... How regrettable...” I muttered several times, feeling on the verge of tears. For a time, my mind remained blank to all things, but soon I became aware of Mr. Repell’s voice. He pushed my shoulder and said, “Mr. Marube—Mr. Marube! Did you not come here to have Miss Hideko’s face remade anew? If not for that purpose, then for what? Where lies your aim?” Writhing in anguish, I cried, “No—that wasn’t my purpose! I thought meeting you might prove Hideko’s innocence—yes—that I might obtain irrefutable evidence to proclaim her purity to the world!” “Oh dear—how unfortunate!” he replied. “If you wished even a shred of Hideko’s origins recognized as pure, you should not have come treading to my doorstep. This place is akin to a repository collecting only the foulest of lineages. Without effort, you have arrived at precisely the opposite direction.” “Yes—with this, I’ve become completely disgusted with my own foolishness.” “If you put it that way,” Mr. Repell continued, “I too find this most regrettable. However, I cannot return the fee I received earlier. Not only am I resolved to fulfill my obligations regarding that payment to the utmost, but having received it, I have disclosed valuable secrets I could not have revealed otherwise. In other words, you now hold the power over my life and death.”

Of course I never thought to demand the return of the fee—yet out of sheer frustration so intense I could find no place for myself, I ran aimlessly about the room without purpose or resolve. Looking back now, I must have appeared utterly deranged.

Before long, I stood again before the desk and compared Natsuko’s charming facial model with Hideko’s beautiful one. *If only these didn’t exist, I might have been spared this agony,* I thought, feeling unmanly grumbling well up within me. “Mr. Repell—Mr. Repell! Are these two facial models and the labels on their backs the only items proving Hideko and Natsuko are the same person?” I may have been truly mad, if only for a moment—“If only these didn’t exist, proving Hideko’s identity would be difficult indeed.” “Indeed—without these,” replied Mr. Repell suspiciously, “proving that Hideko and Natsuko are the same person would not only be difficult but nearly impossible.” Before even hearing these words to their end, I immediately seized both facial models, tore off the labels on their backs, and with all my strength smashed them against the floor.

Mr. Repell, startled, tried to block my hands, shouting “What are you doing? What are you doing?”—but it was too late. The facial models, being extremely fragile waxworks, had already shattered into dust on the floor. Still unsatisfied, I shook off Mr. Repell’s hands and trampled the fragments into powder. He stood dumbfounded, staring blankly, but then suddenly seized me: “You’ve gone too far—you destroy the facial models and then intend to report me to the authorities?” “No, that’s not it. Since I bought this secret with the three thousand pounds earlier, I’m free to destroy it as I please.” “These facial models are my property—I bought them.” After comparing my face with the shattered facial models—or rather, the wax powder—Mr. Repell seemed somewhat reassured. “Well, I suppose you won’t be reporting me to the authorities after all. It’s a shame about the destroyed models, but considering they were exchanged for three thousand pounds, there’s nothing to be done. I shall resign myself to it. You likely have no further business lingering here either. Now—feel free to leave.” With these words, he opened the iron door of the chamber and gestured for me to exit. “I won’t linger, of course—I’m leaving,” I said, turning to depart without a backward glance when Mr. Repell uttered his final remark. “As a precautionary measure, let me state this clearly—if you think there remains no evidence to prove Hideko’s identity and feel emboldened to report me—or rather, my profession—to the authorities, you would be gravely mistaken. Recently, at Mr. Gonda Tokisuke’s request, I created an additional set of these facial models.”

Chapter Eighty-Five: The Hat Drawn Deep Over the Brow

Mr. Repell’s final words—that he had created duplicate facial models at Gonda Tokisuke’s request—might have been lies, truths, or even a stratagem to intimidate me into withholding reports to the authorities. Yet upon reflection, the item Gonda had tucked under his arm earlier did appear strikingly similar to these facial model boxes.

However, I had no mind to dwell deeply. Merely muttering "Such things matter not," I left the house. By then, considerable time must have passed—the hour had grown late, and the town’s streets lay deserted.

As nothing could be done in the dead of night, I sought lodging to pass the hours until dawn, then immediately returned to England the following day, arriving in London around nine o'clock that evening. Throughout the voyage and train journey, my thoughts were occupied solely with Matsutani Hideko—I could form no coherent plan for how to handle this situation henceforth. That she was a fearsome woman who had committed murder and prison escape remained undeniable; equally certain was her infiltration of Ghost Tower to attempt poisoning my uncle in revenge. From this perspective alone, I ought to report the circumstances to Detective Mori Mondo and have her arrested. Yet conversely, it remained true that a marriage agreement existed between Hideko and myself—and should she indeed be apprehended, it would bring irreparable disgrace upon both my uncle and the entire Marube family.

Even if it brought disgrace, I could not protect a criminal—much less one who targeted my uncle’s life and concealed deadly poisons. To shield such a person would make me one who acted contrary to human morality. Though I had resolved this countless times until now, a shred of attachment lingered in my heart—something I could not erase myself. Of course, given how matters stood, I could not make Hideko my wife. Yet somehow she seemed pitiable too. While this deliberation remained unsettled, I could neither return home to meet my uncle nor face Hideko at all. Having arrived in London, I hesitated briefly over what course to take next—but at last resolved to act on a single conviction: I must first meet Gonda Tokisuke.

First and foremost—why had Gonda Tokisuke visited Mr. Paul Repell before me? If his purpose was indeed to obtain facial models, what reason compelled him to need them? Why had he commissioned duplicates? Perhaps, out of resentment over losing Hideko to me, he intended to use those models to threaten her. But no—surely it could be nothing else. If such were his intentions, then he and I must settle the matter of Hideko between us. In any case, meeting and speaking with him would clarify everything.

I finally arrived before Gonda Tokisuke’s residence around ten o’clock at night. Though the rain fell steadily and the town appeared quiet, what struck me as peculiar was this: someone—unidentifiable—stood at the entrance to Gonda’s house, holding aloft a stealth lantern of the sort used by detectives or burglars in clandestine professions, reading the nameplate. As my approaching footsteps drew near, this figure immediately extinguished the lantern and slipped away into the darkness. Though I couldn’t fathom who it might be, they undoubtedly wore a hat pulled deep over their brow and large spectacles—clearly no ordinary person, but one who loathed being recognized by others.

But since I bore no guilt in my own heart, I felt no fear and saw no need for deep investigation—even had there been something to investigate, I truly lacked means to pursue it. Just as I was, I entered and knocked on Gonda’s door. Inside, voices could be heard conversing, but at the sound of my knock they ceased abruptly, followed by hurried noises like objects being concealed. From what I deduced, Gonda had likely ushered his secret discussion partner into an adjoining room or elsewhere.

It was Gonda himself who opened the door from within. By the lamplight spilling through the doorway, his face showed unmistakable displeasure at having his crucial conversation interrupted—one might say he had nearly etched an inverted V between his brows with furrows. Upon seeing me, he said, “Oh, Mr. Marube?” but refrained from adding “Do come in.” Rather, he stood poised as if to declare “Kindly leave” instead. I matched his resolve: “As you see, it’s no one else,” I answered brusquely, placing my hand on the door and pulling it open almost as if thrusting Gonda aside. Entering the room, I settled onto the nearest chair with “Allow me to sit first.”

Chapter Eighty-Six: The Immediate Problem At my presumptuous behavior—forcing my way into the room and seating myself uninvited—Gonda Tokisuke glared at me with sharp-eyed irritation. But he soon seemed to reconsider, saying, “Ah, well—I suppose we must speak thoroughly after all. Let us say what needs saying here and now, and hear what needs hearing.” With that, he finally took his seat. I first stated my purpose: “Tonight I came to thoroughly discuss Matsutani Hideko’s situation, but my foremost inquiry concerns your conduct these past few days. You apparently brought facial models from Mr. Repell in Paris—what have you done with them?”

Though my words were rather abrupt, Gonda—contrrary to his usual unflappable demeanor—startled so severely he nearly leapt from his chair. “M-Mr. Repell in Paris? How do you know such a thing?” I concisely recounted everything from the spider farm affairs to my journey to Paris, then concluded: “I’ve determined you likely commissioned duplicate facial models to threaten Hideko. What have you done with those duplicates?” “As you have surmised, I sent them to Hideko immediately upon returning.” “Huh? Already?” “Yes, already.” “And what was the result of that?” “It has come to pass exactly as I expected.”

Even now, my concern for Hideko had not faded—indeed, it was precisely because it persisted that I had come to visit Mr. Gonda at all. Yet hearing these words only deepened my unease. Though it seemed increasingly certain Hideko had attempted to poison my uncle, I still harbored no desire to harshly reprimand or punish her. I wished only for a peaceful resolution—to settle this matter without undue severity. I said, “Mr. Gonda, this is too cruel! Hideko already bears worries far beyond her capacity to endure—to threaten her further shows a profound lack of consideration!” “No—all of this is your doing!” he retorted. “Because you stole Hideko’s heart, I was forced to resort to such harsh measures.” “What?! *I* stole Hideko’s heart?” “Of course. Hideko was meant to be *my* wife from the start,” Gonda declared. “Since you now know her origins all too well, I’ll speak plainly: *I* extracted her from prison. *I* ensured she could exist safely in this world as she does now. By rights, I could insist she belongs to me—my wife, my possession. But though she feels gratitude for my aid, she harbors no love for me. Unwilling to force a loveless marriage, I patiently showed her kindness, believing affection might bloom in time—only for *you* to interfere from the sidelines and steal her heart! Had I known it would come to this, I’d never have allowed her to infiltrate your uncle’s household. My mistake was indulging her insistence on that scheme, never imagining she’d be snatched away by *you*.” I had nearly forgotten my very purpose in confronting him. “If it was *your* mistake,” I countered, “then *you* should simply abandon it! What manner of behavior is this—clinging to lingering attachment and resorting to extreme measures to threaten her?”

“Spare me your lectures—I’ve no need to hear such sermons from you now. The immediate matter at hand is determining whether Hideko belongs to you or to me.” “That may be so, but you—” “If it’s you, there are no extra complications.” “I shall put it in a single question: Do you, knowing Hideko’s origins, still possess the courage to take her as your wife?” I gritted my teeth, cornered. “Well, that…” “No equivocations! You must stand before your uncle tomorrow and declare: ‘Hideko is none other than Wata Natsuko—the criminal who murdered Okon, former owner of Ghost Tower, whom you yourself once demanded be executed. Yet I, valuing her above family honor, shall marry her at once!’ Do you possess the courage to proclaim this proudly and make Hideko your wife?” Trembling, I declared: “Though I must abandon any thought of making her my wife, my love for Hideko remains second to none. Having learned her true nature, my ideals have crumbled—I feel there’s scarcely any worth in living. Yet I implore you—let her find peaceful stability hereafter.”

“If you cannot make her your wife, then you have no right to speak on Hideko’s behalf! Unlike you, should Hideko consent even tomorrow, I will proclaim her as my wife to the world! I care not if I lose my reputation or ruin my standing—my love for her surpasses yours a hundredfold!” I shouted, “Your love is that of a barbarian! You care nothing for honor or reason—you seek only to impose your will! No woman of feeling could ever cherish such love! How could I entrust Hideko to a savage like you?” Midway through my outburst, a noise sounded from the adjoining room. Startled, I turned to find Hideko standing at the threshold between chambers, watching my dispute with Gonda. So consumed had I been by fervor that I’d failed to notice her presence—yet she must have been there all along.

Chapter Eighty-Seven: Crescent Shape

I had never imagined Hideko would be here, and that she had heard every word I spoke was truly pitiable. Ah—I realized—when I had approached this room's entrance earlier, the voice I'd heard speaking inside had been Hideko's. Startled by the knocking at the door—unaware it was me—Tokisuke had hastily hidden her in the adjoining room. Then, listening from that next chamber, she must have discerned my identity and come to the threshold, yet found herself frozen there—unable to advance or retreat—as she overheard this grave discourse concerning her very existence.

Had I known she was there, I would have spoken far more gently—avoiding any words that might offend, like declaring I could no longer make her my wife or alluding to her status as an escaped convict. Merely hearing such phrases must have wounded her profoundly. She must have found it utterly unbearable. That sound just now—was it not her, overwhelmed by what she heard, nearly fainting as she lost her balance and staggered? It could only have been such a sound.

As I thought this, Hideko seemed utterly unable to support herself, now on the verge of collapse. The pallor of her face and the listlessness in her posture were truly heartrending—it was a wonder she hadn’t already fallen. Hideko’s eyes were neither fixed on my face nor Gonda Tokisuke’s—rather, she stared vacantly at the space between us without blinking. Ah—she was already half-fainting, her consciousness dimming as sensation began to leave her body.

As I perceived this, her body tilted sideways and collapsed onto the floor with a thud, like a falling tree. Startled, I rushed over, but Gonda was quicker than I; spreading his arms to block me, he cried, “No! No! You have just now renounced Hideko with your own words—you have no right to lay hands on her! I will tend to her—step back!” Whether driven by jealousy or outright madness, Gonda seemed utterly possessed as he lifted Hideko and propped her against a nearby settee.

Looking closer, I saw that Hideko had sustained a minor injury on her left forehead, blood seeping from where she must have struck something during her fall. I retrieved my handkerchief to wipe away the blood, but Gonda snatched even this from me and attended to her himself. *Truly, this man’s love is that of a barbarian,* I thought as I gazed intently at Hideko’s face—a sight that embodied heartrending sorrow. Her beauty needed no further elaboration, yet beyond mere loveliness lay an untainted purity and nobility. Though the world holds countless beauties, none could rival the serene dignity radiating from her countenance. No artifice of cosmetics could enhance or mar this innate grace—it could neither be stripped away nor artificially bestowed. It flowed as naturally as pristine water springing from the purest depths of her soul—a formless essence beyond mortal contrivance.

A certain theory asserts that one’s countenance emanates from the soul—that accumulated hardships naturally manifest as a haggard visage, while wickedness filling the heart breeds malevolence in one’s features regardless of beauty or ugliness. Conversely, those who devote themselves wholly to virtuous deeds, renouncing all selfish desires to seek only the satisfaction of conscience, develop a noble countenance imbued with a grandeur and delicacy beyond imitation by actors’ mimicry or painters’ and sculptors’ reproductions. Could this Hideko not be precisely such a person endowed with that magnificent delicacy? Though it seemed incongruous—a woman who had committed murder and prison-break pursuing conscience over self-interest—her features radiated nothing but grandeur and refinement, without the faintest trace of malice.

Had there been even a single trace of malice discernible in her face, I might have found solace. But precisely because no such darkness existed, I felt as though my entire body were being carved apart. How could I sever myself from this woman? In all the world, there existed none as “pure” as she—stained by sin yet unmarked by corruption, defiled yet undefiled. To deem her a villainess would court divine retribution—this uncanny dread gripped me as I cried from my depths: “Oh Hideko—forgive me! At this very moment, I see my own faithlessness and folly!” Unthinkingly, I tried to thrust Gonda aside and cling to her—but he stubbornly blocked me. “Mr. Marube,” he said, “regrets now are futile. Behold the proof!” Seizing Hideko’s left hand, he stripped off her glove to expose the wrist. Compelled to look, I saw it—the lifelong secret she’d guarded: the scar O-Ura had shrieked of discovering; the mark Takanawatari Nagazo had wrestled to glimpse by her grave. No ordinary scar—this crescent-shaped wound, flesh withered to bone in grotesque healing, bore Okon’s death-throe bite. Tales told of flesh torn from a corpse’s jaws, leaving an eternal brand. I lacked courage to look again. Noting my grimace, Gonda declared, “This divides you from Hideko! Yet I—” He lifted her hand and kissed the scar fervently. “—revere it as the matchmaker who delivered her to me.” A shudder racked me uncontrollably.

Chapter Eighty-Eight: A Contrivance to Escape Licking the crescent-shaped scar repeatedly, Gonda seemed to have regained some composure—his earlier maddened demeanor had faded. He now gently cradled Hideko’s scarred hand as he explained in a didactic tone: “Mr. Marube, what do you suppose I did with those facial models? I sent them anonymously to Hideko at once. She must have been startled—as I intended. Without that shock, she would never have come to me.” Having said this much, he looked at my face and confirmed I was listening. “No—absolutely! Lately Hideko believed that as long as *you* protected her, she had nothing left to fear in this world. Yet her conduct toward *me* grew bitterly cold.” “She consults me only when necessary but otherwise ignores me entirely. Yet I deserve no such treatment—I am her very savior! That is why I resolved to summon her here for calm counsel. After much deliberation, I concluded intimidation through the models was essential. By sending them anonymously, she would recall her vulnerability and realize she cannot escape my protection while this secret persists. Moreover, she would inevitably rush here to discuss the sender’s identity and countermeasures—and once present, negotiations could proceed freely. Acting on this plan, I dispatched the models… and just as predicted, Hideko came. But as we began speaking, *you* arrived and disrupted our crucial discussion. Though regrettable then, it has proven fortuitous! Not only did *I* hear you renounce marrying her—*she* heard it too. As you know, Hideko is a woman of immense pride. Having heard those words, she will never become your wife now—no apology can undo this.”

I felt as though I had been handed a death sentence. Would Hideko resent me so bitterly for my words? Would her heart remain closed to any apology? The thought filled me with desolation. Seeing her beautiful face before me now—pale from fainting, wounded and fragile—I felt as though I might lose an entire world if she were to detest me forever. Ah, regret—regret! And as this regret swelled, even the crimes she had committed seemed somehow less condemnable. Weighing their gravity in my mind: surely she hadn’t killed Okon with malice. At that willful age, when the line between good and evil remains blurred, some profound agitation must have driven her unconsciously to murder—a sin pardonable in its way. Especially since she had already endured a death sentence commuted to life imprisonment, suffering bleak days in prison—had she not atoned enough? Moreover, having died and been reborn as Matsutani Hideko, must this new self forever bear the stigma of Wata Natsuko’s sins? To judge her so would be merciless—inhuman. Yet even as this conviction surged within me, another force arose: the moral absolutes ingrained since childhood through home, school, circumstance, and public judgment—that one must never revere a criminal. Within my heart raged a war between fire and water.

Gradually, Hideko regained consciousness. Slowly opening her eyes, she first looked at the gas lamp’s glow, then surveyed the room, turned her gaze to Gonda Tokisuke, and finally fixed her eyes on my face. Fortunately, Gonda had already rebandaged her old injury, sparing her from seeing it herself. As she took in her surroundings—perhaps recalling all that had transpired—she spoke in a childlike, feeble tone: “While I stood here at the threshold, worried you both might quarrel… Ah, it seems I fainted.” “It can’t be helped that I’m so weak-hearted,” she added apologetically, “but I’ve endured nothing but hardships lately.” I seized the moment. “Now, Miss Hideko—you needn’t fear any hardship anymore. I’ll stay by your side.” Shoving Gonda aside to approach her, I found Hideko—who had seemed devoid of strength—jolting upright as though electrified. Fixing me with a gaze brimming with resentment, she spat: “Do not trouble yourself with me again. I am Wata Natsuko.” True to Gonda’s words, her pride had been wounded; she now seemed resolved to sever ties with me entirely. Desperation strained my voice as I pleaded: “Miss Hideko—Miss Hideko! You’ve every right to anger, but if you’d only set aside the past—” “Very well—let us forget we ever grew close,” she interrupted. “I’ve no business here now. Mr. Marube—farewell. And Mr. Gonda—I shall see you again.” Having bid us distinct farewells, she steadied her unsteady steps and moved swiftly toward the door. “Wait!” I implored fervently. “Before you leave—we must devise some means for you to escape safely!” I spoke thus fearing Detective Mori Mondo’s imminent arrest—she needed refuge, however temporary. At this, Hideko whirled on me with renewed fury: “Escape what? I’ve committed no crime!” “I secured only a two-day reprieve from your arrest! I went to Paris seeking proof of your innocence—and failed, as you’ve heard! Now we three must—” My words died as a voice cut through from beyond the door: “The reprieve has expired! To spare you futile scheming—Detective Mori Mondo arrives!” The man who entered—the same suspicious figure who’d earlier scrutinized our nameplate by lantern light—left me thunderstruck.

Chapter Eighty-Nine: The Breath’s Suppression Why had Detective Mori Mondo come? To arrest Matsutani Hideko. Ah, if he had arrived even half an hour later, I would have completed all necessary procedures to help her escape. Yet he came while our plans remained unsettled—a testament to the detective’s efficiency, though most inopportune. Truly, I was astonished—and not alone: Gonda Tokisuke stood shocked; Matsutani Hideko herself appeared stunned. For a moment, we three could only exchange bewildered glances. The sole unperturbed figure was Mori Mondo. As previously described, he wore large glasses that altered his appearance, yet observed our shock with infuriating calmness. Slowly removing the spectacles, he chuckled coldly: “Ha ha ha! These lenses served me well—without them, you’d have recognized me at the gatepost, Mr. Marube. In truth—” He gestured subtly toward Hideko with his eyes. “—I changed my appearance and trailed this woman after she departed Ghost Tower, suspecting she might bolt like a startled deer. Though she didn’t flee, my pursuit proved fruitful! Eavesdropping outside clarified every lingering doubt. A vile practice—eavesdropping—unpleasant and precarious, yet indispensable in my trade for such revelations. Mr. Marube… Mr. Marube! How faithless you prove! You vowed never to let Matsutani Hideko escape, securing a two-day reprieve under that pretense—only to champion schemes for her safe passage! But what else can love’s folly compel one to do? Were I in your position, I might plot similarly—thus I shan’t condemn you harshly. At any rate, thwarting your design spared you becoming a legal offender—a most fortuitous intervention! When your infatuation wanes and you reflect calmly, you’ll bless my interference! Had I not come, you’d have faced grave charges for abetting a fugitive—mark my words!”

Having finished his soliloquy, Mori then straightened his posture and turned toward Hideko. Until that moment, I had stood utterly dumbfounded, nearly stupefied—but seeing him adjust his bearing made me fully grasp Hideko’s peril. As his demeanor shifted, he assumed the formidable authority of a law enforcer, radiating an intimidating aura that repelled approach. Gonda Tokisuke, too, seemed to recognize Hideko’s danger for the first time then—likely judging this an extraordinary situation—and flashed me a lightning-quick glance. I returned it in kind. That exchange carried an unspoken question: *Should we hand her over?* Our mutual understanding needed no words.

Detective Mori Mondo addressed Hideko: “Now then, Miss Wata Natsuko, alias Matsutani Hideko—though it pains me deeply to arrest you here, I cannot neglect my public duty for personal feelings. On suspicion of attempting to poison your foster father, Marube Asao, you are hereby under my arrest.” Though courteous in phrasing, their meaning differed not at all from a barked command: “You’re under arrest—submit quietly!” Ah—Wata Natsuko, the foster-mother killer who had received a death sentence commuted to life imprisonment, escaped prison to be reborn as Matsutani Hideko, now captured anew for her foster father’s murder. Karma? Fate? A false charge? Or indeed divine retribution?

Gonda and I exchanged glances once more—when sharing a boat to face a common enemy, even bitter rivals become brothers. Though we had competed as romantic adversaries until now, the cry of Hideko’s impending arrest instantly united us as kin. Without a moment’s discussion, our roles divided: Tokisuke darted like a swift bird to the room’s entrance, locked the door with a heavy click, and stood guard himself—determined not to let the detective leave this chamber alive. I matched his timing perfectly, lunging at Mori Mondo from behind, grappling him and clamping my hands around his jaw with enough force to dislocate it—a precaution to silence his voice. For such work, my brute strength proved most suited. Though Gonda was a sturdy man himself, he could not match my renowned might in rough tasks. Knowing this, he had shrewdly assigned himself to guard the door while delegating the rough work to me—a move worthy of praise for its quick-wittedness. The detective writhed in my grip like a puppet seized by a mischievous child, not a grunt escaping him. Observing this, Gonda said, “Well done! Do not slacken your hold even slightly. Detectives are apt to sound alarm whistles—if that whistle blows, all is lost. I shall now fetch the means to stop his breath.” With that, he retreated to the next room.

Chapter Ninety: The Parrot’s Echo Declaring he would stop Detective Mori Mondo’s breath, Gonda Tokisuke—though I couldn’t fathom what sort of tool he intended to use—entered the next room. I couldn’t possibly kill the detective for real—I had my own plan. However, whether Detective Mori Mondo perceived this as a life-or-death situation or was driven by Gonda’s terrifying words, he began writhing even more violently. I truly couldn’t bear the cruelty—though my heart overflowed with mercy, my hands showed none. The more he struggled, the tighter I constricted him. Unable to endure this sight any longer, Matsutani Hideko stepped before me with a pallid face. “Is this the detective who was surveilling me at Ghost Tower? If so, please cease such brutality! It’s inhuman to torment someone for my sake. Whether I’m arrested or face any other fate—I no longer care in the slightest.” Though her plea was reasonable, I merely brushed it off with a “Hmph.” In truth, it was a heartless act of violence—I felt myself becoming a monstrous villain. Had another man treated a detective thus for a woman’s sake, what would I have called him? Never a gentleman. But all of this was for Hideko—there was no other way.

Amidst this, Gonda emerged from the adjoining room carrying a hemp rope long enough to bind four or five men and strips of white cotton. He clearly intended to gag the detective after restraining him—a plan I fully endorsed. Our sole aim was to deprive the detective of mobility and voice until Hideko could escape unharmed. Gonda addressed me: “Mr. Marube—do not slacken your hold in the slightest! I shall bind his legs. Rest assured, I learned rope-tying techniques from sailors—my knots won’t come undone easily.” With this, he seized the detective’s legs and began coiling the rope around them in tight loops.

Detective Mori Mondo, perhaps having resigned himself to the futility of struggling against my strength, ceased his thrashing. In its place, an extraordinary fury colored his eyes as he glared fixedly at my face. Had he possessed the power to kill with a gaze, I would surely have perished then. Even resolved as I was, such a glare left me ill at ease. Desperate to offer some verbal solace, I parroted: “Detective Mori—Detective Mori! Resent me if you must, but this is entirely for your own sake! By depriving you of freedom now, we prevent you from arresting an innocent Miss Hideko and becoming a laughingstock for professional incompetence hereafter. Earlier, you claimed to obstruct my crime of aiding a felon out of goodwill—now I return the favor! With equal benevolence, I obstruct your grave professional blunder! Once Miss Hideko safely escapes beyond your reach, we’ll release you immediately. By then, no grounds for your failure will remain.” Whether these words reached his heart remained unclear.

He strained to speak, but my grip on his jaw remained unyielding, leaving him only able to emit a dog-like growl of pain. Witnessing this scene and hearing his stifled voice, Hideko cried, “Mr. Marube—won’t you show him any mercy at all?” Then, turning to Gonda Tokisuke, she demanded, “Did you not declare moments ago that you would never stoop to cowardice unbefitting a gentleman? How is *this* not cowardice? How does it honor the title of ‘gentleman’? If you wish to spare my name further disgrace, cast aside that rope at once!” Gonda likewise ignored her protests. Swiftly, he bound Mori Mondo from waist to hands to neck like a rolled mat, finally forcing a gag into his mouth. “There, Mr. Marube—this is as good as stopping his breath,” said Gonda. “Let’s carry him to the next room and toss him into the closet for now.” Complying, I gripped Mori’s head while Gonda seized his legs. Together we hoisted him up, hauled him to the adjoining chamber, and unceremoniously threw him into the closet as if disposing of rubble before shutting the door.

Chapter Ninety-One: A Truly Noble Woman With his hands, feet, neck, and torso all tightly bound in long ropes, even someone as agile as Mori Mondo could do nothing. Hoisted up by me and Gonda, he was unceremoniously carried to the next room and thrown into the closet—a truly pitiable sight. Even as I carried him to the next room, I stole glances at Hideko to gauge her thoughts. Her pale face grew even paler; she bit her lip, leaned against a wall, and stared vacantly across the chamber. Some profound anguish gripped her heart—she seemed to be mustering extraordinary resolve. Was she perhaps contemplating suicide?

Seeing this was truly pitiable. While other girls her age remained oblivious to the world’s hardships—enraptured by theaters, soirées, clothes, and trinkets—why was it that Hideko alone faced imprisonment, death, and such terrifying ordeals? Though they spoke of crimes committed or her nature, enduring such anguish should have expunged most sins. Perhaps she had now become purer than even those with spotless histories—a soul refined beyond reproach.

As I thought this and tried to return to the previous room, Gonda stopped me from behind. “Wait—we must settle our discussion here.” I whispered cautiously: “But here—if we discuss it here, Detective Mori will hear us.” “It’s fine,” he replied. “It’s not particularly secretive—more precisely, it’s something difficult to say in front of Hideko.” “Then I’ll listen. What is this discussion about?” Gonda remained standing directly before the closet where he’d thrown the detective. “Even if we let Hideko escape now, we can’t simply send her alone. Either you or I must accompany her and protect her with our lives until we confirm she’s reached safety. Who will take on this duty—you or I?”

“Though I may never make Hideko my wife,” I thought, “I want to remain someone she holds dear for years to come.” By undertaking her protection here, I could at least ensure she felt indebted to me in other respects. Without hesitation, I declared: “That duty naturally falls to me. You’re a lawyer with pressing obligations.” “Spare me your false courtesy,” Gonda retorted. “I’d abandon my profession without hesitation.” “If that’s your stance,” I countered, “I’m prepared to lay down my very life.” “This quarrel leads nowhere,” Gonda conceded bitterly. “Let us have Hideko choose instead—though entrusting such a decision feels precarious.” “Agreed,” I replied. Together we returned to the previous room.

"Oh no! Before we knew it, Hideko—the crucial figure—had vanished. She had seemed to be biting her lip earlier, summoning extraordinary resolve—now having steeled herself completely, she appeared to have departed somewhere. The entrance door, previously locked, stood wide open. This revealed that Gonda had given her a duplicate key long ago to freely access his room. 'Oh no!' I exclaimed. 'Could she have rushed off intending suicide?'" "She certainly fled," said Gonda, "but not for suicide. Had she been weak enough for that, she'd have done it long ago. A woman who endured prison to uphold her convictions doesn't take her own life so easily." "In any case, we must chase her!"

“Wait,” said Gonda. “No doubt she intends to go into hiding now, but given her exceedingly cautious nature, she must have returned to Ghost Tower to burn any documents or items that could incriminate her if discovered later.” “Then I’ll return to Ghost Tower immediately,” I replied. “At any rate, I’ll check the station first.” As I rose to leave, Gonda restrained me again. “If she went to Ghost Tower, we’ve detained Mori here—there’s no immediate risk of her arrest. You can safely take a day or two to deliberate with me before returning.” “True—if she indeed went to Ghost Tower, an hour or two won’t matter,” I countered. “But if she fled directly without going there, it’s dire. I’ll go to the station and confirm.” Gonda nodded. “Very well—but even if you meet Hideko there, you must not return to Ghost Tower with her. Tell her this: ‘Stay calm at the tower for two or three days—all will be well. We’ll secure a safe path soon.’ Reassure her with these words, then come back here.”

Indeed, this was the most reasonable plan. Since no agreement had yet been reached between Gonda and myself, I knew I ought to turn back once more. Leaving behind a terse “Understood,” I immediately rushed to Paddington Station—the departure point for trains bound for Tower Village—but missed it by a hair’s breadth. Anxiously wondering whether Hideko had boarded that train, I watched it depart when—through a first-class compartment window—I glimpsed her figure. *So she truly is returning to Ghost Tower,* I thought, finding momentary relief in this certainty. Checking the timetable revealed the next train was the final one at 1:30 AM—leaving an hour and a half to consult with Gonda. Steadying myself, I drafted a telegram there: “Remain calm at Ghost Tower for one or two days—do not leave until my return,” and sent it to Hideko. Then, as agreed, I returned to Gonda’s residence—though what scheme he intended to propose filled me with equal parts curiosity and revulsion.

Gonda was unnervingly calm, leisurely smoking a cigarette. After hearing my account of events at the station, he declared: “There—you see? Just as I predicted. I understand Hideko’s actions as intimately as my own.” “Spare me your bragging,” I snapped. “Let us conclude our business.” “Oh, I’ll speak plainly,” Gonda countered, his voice dripping with false magnanimity. “Since you insist on transparency—prepare yourself—alas, Hideko’s affections reside not with me, but entirely with *you*.” Though startled by this admission from my rival, I maintained a detached tone. “And what of it?” “The truth is,” Gonda leaned forward, “Hideko collapsed earlier because you discovered her supposed crimes and rejected her as unmarriageable—but mark this: you’ve proven yourself unworthy of her devotion by fixating on these fabrications! Unlike you, I neither abandon her over these ‘sins’ nor even believe they exist!” “You deny her guilt?” “In precise terms—Hideko has committed no crime whatsoever, let alone murder. She’s utterly blameless.” “Preposterous! She stood trial!” “A flawed trial!” Gonda slammed his palm on the table. “Misdirected by circumstance to punish an innocent while the true culprit roams free! This is why I pity her—” “No—revere her! Hideko embodies true nobility!”

Chapter Ninety-Two: You Are Human “Hideko is pure! Hideko is innocent!” I involuntarily cried out, leaping up and pacing frantically around the room. If she had truly committed no crime—if she had been imprisoned solely due to a wrongful trial—then there remained no reason whatsoever to shun her. Rather, she deserved pity, love, and reverence. As Gonda said—she was indeed a noble woman through and through, an extraordinary figure rare in this world. Yet this revelation proved utterly astonishing. However error-prone trials might be, could there truly exist such an outrageous miscarriage of justice—where one who had committed no crime was branded a murderer, failed to prove their innocence, and faced sentencing and execution? The notion strained credulity to its limits.

Had I heard such claims without knowing Hideko’s character, I would have dismissed them with scornful laughter—who wouldn’t assume such judicial errors impossible in modern courts? Yet knowing her as I did, I couldn’t dismiss them. By every measure, Hideko lacked the disposition for crime—the more one observed her countenance and conduct, the purer she appeared, verging on the transcendent. How could such a rare exemplar of womanhood stoop to base criminality?

When I first heard of Hideko’s crimes from Mr. Paul Repell, how much I had hesitated to believe it—this the reader already knows. I had been overwhelmed by the evidence of her altered appearance and reluctantly accepted it, yet never truly believed it in my heart. Thus even in my acceptance, a seed of doubt had remained deep within, threatening to uproot my convictions at any moment. The reason was none other than this: from some indefinable aspect of Hideko herself emanated a radiant light—so brilliant it could neither be concealed nor extinguished—that made believing her a criminal utterly impossible.

This surprise, though unexpected, was nothing like the shock I had felt upon hearing she was a criminal—a shock that had refused to dissolve in my heart. When I first heard of her crimes, revulsion had surged from my depths like clear water repelling oil, a nausea so visceral I nearly retched—utterly incompatible with my soul. Now, in stark contrast, a beam of springlight melted warmly into my being; this surprise lifted my entire body as if buoyed by air. A surprise that fit me perfectly—the more of this shock, the better! Even had I resisted belief, disbelief became impossible. Before my mind could accept it, my very spirit had already leaned toward this truth: *It must be so.*

“Ah—do you truly know of this matter?” were the first words I uttered. Gonda replied: “I most certainly do know. At present, I can prove that the true criminal is not Hideko but exists elsewhere—I can present irrefutable evidence to you, to society, and to the law. Whether to reveal this evidence or withhold it—in other words, whether to prove the criminal’s existence elsewhere or not—rests solely on my own discretion—but in truth, Mr. Marube, it hinges entirely on *your* discretion.” “Wh-what—you’ve had such evidence all this time, yet never proved it, letting Hideko suffer? Are you even human?” I retorted, eyes bulging.

“Now, now—do not leap to conclusions. I did not withhold proof despite knowing—it is only recently that I obtained this evidence. Let me clarify: I myself defended Hideko—no, Wata Natsuko—in her case. At the time, I heard directly from Natsuko’s own lips, time and again, that she had not committed this murder, and I largely believed her. Precisely *because* I believed her, I threw myself into her defense with all my might. Yet all circumstances then pointed to her guilt, and I could produce no counterevidence. Thus, my efforts proved futile, and Natsuko—Hideko—was convicted of murder. At that time, I vowed to her: ‘If you truly did not kill anyone, the real culprit will inevitably emerge someday. Somewhere, evidence must exist. While you remain imprisoned, *I* shall search for it.’ Hideko, in turn, declared with fiery resolve: ‘I cannot submit to this unjust verdict. I *will* escape this prison—by any means necessary—and exhaust every method to ensure that even a single soul in this world believes Wata Natsuko is no murderer. For this purpose, I am prepared to devote my entire life.’ Hence her escape was no ordinary prison break. Unlike those who flee lawful confinement, she was compelled by legal tyranny to endure imprisonment unjustly—and thus broke free with all her strength. Even after escaping, she has surely dedicated herself wholly to this cause until today.”

From this account, Hideko’s so-called “secret purpose” likely lay in those very circumstances. Though relying solely on this left some lingering ambiguities, I had at least grasped the general outline of it all. I felt as though scales had fallen from my eyes.

Chapter Ninety-Three: That's the Discussion I was so overjoyed I forgot everything else. “Indeed, Mr. Gonda—that trial was undoubtedly a mistake! That Hideko could commit such a detestable crime as murder is clear to anyone who looks!” Gonda sneered, “Oh? Clear to *everyone’s* eyes? How admirable—the moment you heard Mr. Paul Repell call the woman you’d promised to wed a murderess, you believed it instantly! Now hearing me declare her innocent, you accept it without seeing a shred of proof! Truly, your convictions shift with the morning dew!” Though my cheeks burned crimson, I countered: “Yes—I believe this without evidence. Hideko’s bearing and conduct surpass a hundred proofs.”

Having declared this, upon further reflection, I realized this was no occasion for mere rejoicing. If she truly were such a pure and blameless woman, we must swiftly arrange for her purity to be recognized by the world. “Mr. Gonda,” I said, “my fickleness—believing her guilty one moment and innocent the next—must seem utterly absurd. I’ll endure any mockery for it, but before all else, shouldn’t we present to the world the evidence of Hideko’s innocence? Let us demonstrate it publicly and clear the false accusations staining her name!” Gonda offered no reply for some reason. I pressed him: “Mr. Gonda—should we not proclaim Hideko’s innocence to the world with all the voice we can muster? Especially now that she faces this second horrific accusation of patricide! At the very least, let us show Detective Mori the evidence that she has no tainted history of crime, dispel this looming calamity, and secure her safety for now! Come—where is this evidence? Produce it here! Now!”

Gonda replied gravely, “**That** is precisely the consultation. Unless a firm agreement is reached between you and me—” “Don’t be hasty—listen calmly to my words first. Are you absolutely certain you wish to save Hideko?” I snapped, “Why ask such a superfluous question? What else would I do but save her?” “But saving her will require extraordinary resolve on your part—you must endure immense hardship.” “I can endure anything.” “Good—hearing that resolve allows me to speak plainly. To save Hideko, you must now return to Ghost Tower and declare to her: ‘Wata Natsuko, tainted by murder, can never become Marube Michikurou’s wife—nay, your very presence defiles this house. Leave at once when preparations are complete.’” “What do you mean by that?” “It’s nothing—merely the first step in rescuing Hideko.”

"What preposterous reasoning!" I thought. "To claim that falsely branding an innocent person as a criminal constitutes preparation for clearing their name—such logic defies all reason!" I demanded: "How could that possibly be preparation?" Gonda remained unperturbed. "Unless you do this, Hideko won't relinquish her attachment to you. While it may have appeared earlier that she'd given up on you entirely, that wasn't true disaffection—merely temporary anger. Resentment proves she still cares deeply. True indifference would manifest as scornful dismissal, not bitterness. If you genuinely wish to save her, you must engineer circumstances where she utterly rejects you." I countered bitterly: "But Mr. Gonda—Hideko possesses an unyielding spirit! Once she severs ties with someone, even after being vindicated, she'll never restore those broken bonds. She'll cast me aside permanently!"

“Naturally,” said Gonda. “There is no way to save her unless you are cast out of her life entirely—unless the man called Marube Michikurou is completely erased from Hideko’s sight.”

“Could such preposterous reasoning exist in this world?” I exclaimed, utterly dumbfounded. “Mr. Gonda—I don’t understand a word you’re saying! Why must Hideko scorn me for life to clear these false charges?” “Where does such logic exist? Unless you explain it plainly to my satisfaction, I must regrettably deem you a madman! Your words lack all coherence—they’re nothing but a lunatic’s ravings!” Gonda showed no anger as he replied, “Indeed—were these a madman’s ravings, I’d feel no pity for you. But since they’re not, I regret there remains no other path to save Hideko.” “Why? Why must it be so?”

“To put it plainly—so long as Hideko doesn’t completely renounce her affection for you, she’ll never become Gonda Tokisuke’s wife. Unless she becomes my wife, I cannot save her.” “I’ll destroy the evidence I hold—there! I declare this with a man’s word. Do you understand now?” Ah—those words were the ravings of a demon consumed by jealousy.

Chapter Ninety-Four: A Blood-Spewing Anguish

When one sees a person fallen into a well, could there be anyone who does not wish to rescue them? When one sees a person suffering under false charges, could there be anyone who does not wish to clear those charges? If such a person exists, they are a demon. Moreover, these false charges—the grave crimes of killing her foster mother and father—were levied against the very woman I loved, pitied, and respected. To demand she must become his wife to rescue her from such heinous accusations—was this human speech? I stared at Gonda Tokisuke’s face in stunned silence, unable to utter a word—and he too remained silent, as though awaiting my response. Seeing no end to this silence, I finally said: “Mr. Gonda—isn’t your demand excessively cruel? To claim you cannot save Hideko unless she becomes your wife—” “Indeed,” said Gonda, “it may seem excessive—but this is not for *you* to judge.” “Why?” “That severity applies equally to you. Were you to dissect your own heart in detail, wouldn’t it conclude you too must make her your wife to save her?” “N-now, I would never entertain such a despicable scheme—” “If you truly harbor no such scheme,” he cut in, “return at once to Ghost Tower and ensure Hideko utterly renounces her affection for you—exactly as I say. Once *you* make her abandon all regard for you, she will finally become my wife. Ah—once settled as *my* wife, her disgrace will vanish within three days.” “But that’s—” “That ‘But that’s—’ of yours,” Gonda interjected, “doesn’t your heart align with mine? You wish to save Hideko and make her your wife—even if saving her required marriage! How does this differ from my resolve? If you claim otherwise, why not declare plainly here: ‘I care not if she becomes my wife—only clear her disgrace!’”

Now that I heard it put this way, perhaps my own heart differed little from Gonda’s after all. To save Hideko without making her my wife left me somehow unsatisfied—ah, had I too become a demon-hearted man unworthy of being called human? Must I now sever all ties, engineer her lifelong renunciation of me, and thereby open her path to salvation? Though bitterly regrettable—having just recognized her as a pure, blameless woman worthy of reverence—that I must immediately orchestrate her utter disaffection... Yet this very regret might draw my heart closer to Gonda’s demonic resolve. Regret upon regret—an inexpressible anguish clawed at my flesh, but there was no alternative. “Mr. Gonda—your logic is merciless indeed.” “Your words too, you know…”

I let out a heavy sigh. “Mr. Gonda, Mr. Gonda—if I were to declare here and now that I absolutely cannot bring myself to engineer a situation where Hideko would renounce all affection for me for life... what would you do?” “If you insist on that,” said Gonda, “I can do nothing about it. I detest lingering sentimentally like a woman as you do. If that’s your choice, proceed with the wedding as you please—I’ll merely offer my congratulations and bid you farewell.” “Can you truly be satisfied with that?” Gonda replied: “I can. For though I may lose in love, I shall triumph in revenge. Ah, love is a fleeting defeat—revenge, an eternal victory.” “What sort of revenge are you speaking of?”

“Your marriage to Hideko would itself become my revenge—consider this carefully! Should you make Hideko your wife, though you believe her innocent, society will not share your view. Whether through someone revealing her surgically altered face—exposing that Mrs. Marube is none other than Wata Natsuko, convicted years ago of foster mother murder—or through Detective Mori Mondo immediately reporting his findings to authorities, Hideko will be unable to remain in this nation. You’ll both flee to some remote foreign land severed from our society. Even there, you’ll tremble at every gust of wind and raindrop, never knowing when arrest might come. Within three years, she’ll age prematurely—a withered shell ignorant of life’s joys. As your wife, she’ll never smile joyfully at you but instead scream nightly from horrific nightmares. Where then lies marital bliss? You’ll know she needn’t fear worldly matters yet fail to prove your husbandly worth or ease her suffering. The woman who could’ve been hailed as a heroine—a revered chaste woman respected by all as Gonda’s wife—you’ll reduce to wretchedness through selfish possession. Your self-reproach will intensify daily while you both become shadows mirroring my own gloomy marriage. This vision satisfies me—no, I merely endure temporary romantic defeat. Now Mr. Marube—you’re fundamentally human, no demon. Yet you’d bury the woman you love beneath murderous infamy for fleeting satisfaction—stealing her lifelong happiness when a noble path awaits her! Your love reeks of venom—a love that kills, that ruins women’s lives! When Hideko later understands this, she’ll surely feel gratitude rather than resentment toward your miserly heart. Go ahead—entomb her in false accusations with this ‘love’ of yours!”

What terrifying words! I realized that with Gonda Tokisuke as an enemy, Hideko’s life would hold no happiness whatsoever. Were I to wed Hideko, this man would immediately launch his campaign of vengeance, plunging us both into abject misery without respite. Though he had always seemed magnanimous and chivalrous—a manly man—could love truly warp a human so utterly? Undoubtedly, his love was stronger than mine. To claim Hideko as my wife despite knowing this—to let her sink into the wretched state he described—would render my love a venomous thing. However agonizing, I had no choice but to concede victory to him. Resolutely, I declared: “Very well, Mr. Gonda—make Hideko your wife.” I declared through blood-spewing anguish.

Chapter Ninety-Five: What Kind of Evidence Is This?

I had completely surrendered. “Make Hideko your wife,” I declared to Gonda—though it felt like vomiting blood, there was no alternative. Unless I did this, I could never clear Hideko’s disgrace nor allow her to live a life of happiness worthy of her true self. This alone constituted genuine love for Hideko. Gonda showed no trace of joy, speaking as if negotiating legal fees with a client: “Truly, you prove yourself worthy—only now do you demonstrate what pure love means. But you must not stray even one step from these words. You must make Hideko believe you still consider her guilty—appear as though *you* have utterly renounced her. Only then will she scorn you, lamenting how pitiful it was to have once revered such a fickle, faithless man as her future husband. She will cease approaching you entirely. After that, my efforts alone will suffice. When I seize the moment to show her utmost kindness—contrasting your betrayal with my sincerity—her heart will gradually turn toward me. She will begin loving me as fiercely as she once loved you. Understand this: you must not show even a hint of appeasement toward her. For every day Hideko delays in renouncing you, her disgrace lingers longer. Should this drag on until opportunities vanish, all will be beyond remedy.” Swallowing my tears, I said, “Very well, I understand. But you must begin saving Hideko immediately.” “Naturally—she is my future wife, after all,” replied Gonda. “I’ll act at once, even without your urging. For I have no means other than rescuing her and making her feel indebted to my kindness.”

I could no longer bear my unease. “But Mr. Gonda—there’s not even a one-in-ten-thousand chance of failure in rescuing Hideko, is there?” “That question is redundant,” said Gonda. “You clearly remain attached, but consider the logic here: your acquaintance with Hideko is recent. For eight years, I’ve devoted myself to her—not merely defending her in court but enabling her prison escape. You cannot fathom the hardships I’ve endured since. Given these sacrifices, Hideko rightfully belongs as my wife. Knowing this, there’s no path for lingering sentiment.” “I assure you—once resolved, I’ll harbor no lingering attachments,” I replied. “But I remain anxious: will she truly be saved? What exactly is this ‘solid evidence’ you speak of? I must hear it for myself.” “It is the most indisputable piece of evidence,” Gonda declared. “I’ve tracked down the true culprit who killed Okon and can expose them to the proper authorities at any time. Moreover, I’ve thoroughly investigated everything to ensure they cannot stubbornly deny their guilt. Within a few months, I’ll achieve my goal. Once that man finally confesses and is convicted, watch as all of society prostrates themselves before Hideko, apologizing for their past misjudgment. She’ll be hailed as a pitiable martyr who endured false accusations with innocence—becoming the most renowned woman in the nation and gaining immense respect.” “Ah!” he added mockingly. “When positions reverse so completely that your beloved leaps from disgrace’s depths to honor’s pinnacle—you must find joy in yielding Hideko to me! Isn’t this a cause for delight?”

Whether he intended to console me or mock me, I could not discern—but if his words held truth, I would be glad. Yes, regrettably glad. “Yes, Mr. Gonda—I gladly entrust that matter to you. Even as we speak, the train’s departure time approaches, so I shall take my leave—but please proceed with the procedures immediately.” “Very well,” said Gonda. “The first procedural step is simple: release Mori Mondo from his earlier restraints and whisper the true culprit’s name into his ear.” As he spoke thus and opened the door to the next room—astonishingly—Mori Mondo, still bound in coils, had somehow rolled all the way outside this door. He had likely been eavesdropping—no, *listening while lying down*—to our conversation once more. What he thought upon hearing it I cannot say, but his face still bore the same wrathful expression. But I had no time to attend to him, so I bid Gonda farewell as I was. Watching my retreating figure, Gonda called out: “Rest assured, Mr. Marube—I shall handle this detective’s disposition entirely. Moreover, I will follow you to Ghost Tower tomorrow to meet Hideko. Should she show not the slightest sign of having renounced you by then, I shall condemn you most thoroughly as a dishonorable oath-breaker.” His voice resounded in my despairing ears like a warning bell.

Chapter Ninety-Six: With a Swish of the Door Curtain

I let Gonda Tokisuke’s voice fade into the background as I descended the stairs; what exchanges later transpired between him and Mori Mondo remained unknown to me. Driven solely by the desperate urge to return to Ghost Tower, I raced to the station and barely caught the final train. When I finally settled my nerves aboard the train, I felt profound gratitude—worthy of thanking the gods themselves—for having confirmed Hideko’s purity and innocence. Yet to think I must feign continued suspicion of this blameless woman, make her despise me for life, and orchestrate her complete renunciation of me—what pitiful wretchedness this was! Whether to weep or laugh escaped me; in that moment, I could no longer comprehend myself.

However, I had fallen asleep on the train and only awoke upon arriving at Tō-no-Mura Station—it was already seven in the morning. Though Hideko should have arrived here before dawn, I worried whether she had actually come to this place or perhaps disembarked at some station along the way. Rushing back to Ghost Tower, I first asked the gatekeeper if she had returned. He replied that while a telegram addressed to Hideko had arrived late last night from London, he knew nothing of her return. Since that telegram must have been the one I sent, I inquired what had become of it and learned it had been given to Torai Fujin. Without even entering my own room, I went directly to her quarters, where I found her washing the face of that lemur as usual. Though she appeared perfectly composed, I could tell from the movement of her eyes upon seeing me that something troubled her heart. Perhaps she already knew I had visited the spider farm and uncovered her background—or perhaps something else weighed on her mind. Concealing my suspicion, I casually asked, “And Miss Hideko...?” After finishing wiping the lemur’s face, she replied, “Well now, she went out somewhere yesterday and hasn’t returned yet. But since a telegram came from London, I do hope she returns soon.” Her manner of speaking didn’t seem like her usual lies this time. From this, I concluded Hideko had likely never returned to this house at all—or perhaps she’d arrived at dawn when the guard was negligent and hidden herself in her own room.

If she had seen my telegram, she would surely be calm by now, given that I had written it to reassure her. But if my telegram had yet to reach Hideko’s hands, she must still be in a state of unbearable anxiety. I longed to meet her quickly and put her mind at ease—no, I couldn’t offer reassurance now. Meeting her would only compel me to make her renounce all affection for me. Yet even so, I wanted to see her—without meeting her face-to-face, something felt incomplete.

From there, I went to Hideko’s room and searched the entire house again, but she was nowhere to be seen. With no other choice, I resolved to return to the station to inquire if anyone had witnessed her disembarking. Yet I could not leave without first visiting my uncle—still hovering between life and death—in his sickroom. Upon asking the nurse, I learned his condition improved daily, but he now slept soundly and would not wake for another two hours or so. Deciding to proceed to the station first, I headed to the stable and took out my usual horse. Having gone unridden for three or four days, it seemed unusually spirited—practically straining at the bit. No sooner had I mounted than it dashed off without needing a whip’s touch, reaching the station in moments. There, a brief inquiry revealed that Hideko had indeed disembarked from the early morning train at this station. Though a cabman waiting there had urged her to ride, she refused and walked off toward Ghost Tower—the very driver still lingered at the station. This baffled me—had she vanished like O-Ura? Could she be running errands between station and tower? Unable to make sense of it, I turned my horse back toward the village. Ahead walked an errand boy carrying what appeared to be morning shopping from town—recognizable from behind as the same youth who had once secretly informed me about the fake telegram’s sender. He worked for Chigusa-ya, the flower-selling crone, and carried a handbag unlike those used locally—the sort a lady might own. Though I couldn’t recall if Hideko had carried such a bag last night, I wondered if she might have stopped at the flower shop and entrusted him with purchases. As I guided my horse closer, the boy started at the hoofbeats and turned—the sudden movement spooked my already high-strung mount. Before I could tighten the reins, it veered off the road—later, it almost seemed as though some supernatural force guided it—charging into Chigusa-ya’s garden before halting. This alone wouldn’t have been suspicious, but then I saw someone inside swiftly open a curtained window in what appeared to be an inner room—likely startled by my horse’s abrupt approach. The figure closed the curtain upon spotting me, but not before I caught a fleeting glimpse of their face—a sight so shocking I nearly fell from my saddle and cried out involuntarily. To encounter such a face here of all places made me doubt my own eyes—yet these eyes never deceived me. If I may say so, this face now hidden behind that window held not just part but most of Ghost Tower’s secrets! Who do you suppose this was?

Chapter Ninety-Seven: The Bastard Revealed The face hidden in the window belonged to a truly unexpected person. I was so shocked that I momentarily forgot about Hideko altogether. Immediately tying my horse to a garden tree, I pushed open what could be called the entrance door and stepped inside. The interior stood empty as a void—no one present. When I tried heading toward the inner room where I had seen that face, the partition door remained locked with a heavy padlock. Even if I had to break down the door, I needed to get inside. Having restrained Detective Mori Mondo the previous night, trespassing now seemed trivial. As I desperately shook the door, an old woman nearing sixty emerged from a window, reproaching, "What are you doing?" She clutched a bundle of keys—likely the mistress of this house. "I have urgent business with someone in the inner room," I declared, snatching the keys from her. Before she could react, I unlocked the partition door. Beyond it lay the very room where that face had hidden.

Throwing the keys at the old woman’s feet, I entered the room. There, huddled in the corner like a mouse cornered by a cat was the owner of that face. Perhaps having resigned herself to the futility of escape, she stood up and confronted me: “You are too cruel! How brutish—entering this room without permission!” she scolded me—the very image of a cornered mouse biting back at a cat. As to who this “cornered mouse” might be—the reader has likely surmised already—it was none other than O-Ura of Urahara, who had vanished without a trace.

How O-Ura had disappeared, why she had hidden in this house—likely various secrets were tied to this. Feeling the time had come for all to be explained, I grabbed O-Ura’s hand as an officer would when apprehending a criminal: “Now then—cruelly and roughly—do you have any right to refuse my intrusion into this room, Miss O-Ura? You’ve committed acts unbefitting a woman and caused others immense harm. The time has come for you to atone for that harm and humbly show remorse.”

“Do you speak of damages? Of apologies? *I* am the woman who has suffered no small measure of harm!” Though she spoke with feigned anger, her voice trembled with fear—a desperate pretense of vigor now that her schemes had collapsed completely. “You are not one to utter such hollow lies,” I declared. “You yourself know full well—you caused the harm, while another woman suffered it.” O-Ura shook off my hand bitterly. “Do you despise me so much? Do you cherish *that woman* to such extremes?” I responded sternly, “Whether I despise or cherish her is irrelevant—I accuse you regardless of affection. You likely assume I say this out of love for Matsutani Hideko, but loving her has become a bygone dream. I may never even see her face again.”

O-Ura, startled, took a step forward. “Ah! Have you finally uncovered Matsutani Hideko’s disgraceful true nature?” “I neither uncovered nor did anything—I simply came to know that Matsutani Hideko was an unfortunate woman who suffered under false accusations for so long—no, a pure and blameless woman! Though I learned this truth, Hideko has ceased to be mine and has become another’s entirely.” “Oh, the ‘other person’—you mean lawyer Gonda Tokisuke, don’t you?” “Exactly. It has been decided that Hideko will become Gonda Tokisuke’s wife.”

O-Ura stared at my face for a moment as if unable to comprehend something, then suddenly burst into tears. "Oh! Deceived! Deceived! That villain promised to let me take revenge and destroy Hideko, but he tricked me from the start! Now I can't even carry out that revenge!" I've always been weak against women's tears. Even seeing genuine tears stream down the face of this detestable woman robbed me of the courage to rebuke her harshly. Softening my tone slightly, I asked, "Who are you referring to like this? Who is 'that bastard'?" "That bastard is that bastard! The villain! My husband!" "Wh-what? You already have a husband? You're married?" O-Ura cried: "Yes! He deceived me into this forced marriage! As you know, though it was my own fault for being abandoned by you, my fury and despair made me listen ever more deeply to that villain's words! He said he'd fully avenge me against you and destroy Hideko! Yes, I was used as his tool—I'd long suspected it, but never before have I understood his loathsomeness so clearly!" "But I still don't know who this 'that bastard' refers to." "Oh, don't you understand? 'That bastard' means Takanawatari Nagazo!" I'd naturally surmised it must be Takanawatari Nagazo—though I'd speculated as much, I'd waited to hear O-Ura state it voluntarily from her own lips. Now at last, the countless secrets haunting Ghost Tower these past days were undoubtedly connected to that Takanawatari Nagazo—they would surely unravel through O-Ura's testimony.

Chapter Ninety-Eight: A Perilous Question However wicked O-Ura might be, her becoming Takanawatari Nagazo’s wife struck me as a pitiable downfall. I could not help but sigh and utter words even I could not discern as consolation or condemnation: “You brought this upon yourself by fixating on nothing but sinful, meddlesome matters.” O-Ura collapsed in tears at these words, then cried out between sobs: “Michi-san… Michi-san—” But perhaps ashamed to address me so familiarly by my childhood name, she corrected herself: “Mr. Marube! You reproach me like this because you know nothing! Listen—I’ll tell you everything!” Of course, I had to hear it—how O-Ura had vanished from Ghost Tower’s study, why the corpse later pulled from the moat as hers was not her at all. These were mysteries within mysteries, and only O-Ura’s own explanation could unravel them. “Very well—I’ll listen,” I said. “Confessing truthfully will lessen your guilt.” Yet O-Ura seemed incapable of speech, her face pallid and her entire body trembling. Though even touching this villainous woman felt repulsive, leaving her in this state risked further calamity. Resolving to help her onto the sofa, I took her hand—whereupon she clung to mine like a drowning person, slumping her full weight against my arm. I recalled how she had similarly gripped me in the study just before her disappearance, murmuring entreaties. Unpleasant memories surged—I quickly set her down on the sofa.

Yet she still seemed incapable of speaking, so I thought to offer her wine. Scanning the room, I asked, “Miss O-Ura, would you like something to drink?” O-Ura moaned as if gathering all life’s bitterness into this moment: “Very well—if it’s poison, I’ll drink it.” But then she continued: “No—no! I’ve been a coward since birth. Even if I wanted to drink poison, I couldn’t! The agony of death terrifies me—the thought of everything turning pitch black... That’s what I fear! Michi-san—no, *Mr. Marube*—I need nothing else. Just let me hold your hand while I speak. Aren’t we childhood friends?” Partially sitting up, she steadied her voice somewhat. “I truly did commit nothing but wrongs—but all those wrongs stemmed from love and jealousy. In a way... they were for your sake.”

“Regardless of their origins, sins are sins and misdeeds are misdeeds—there is no excusing them. Yet love and jealousy are undeniable facts. I knew all too well how deeply jealous this woman had been since childhood—especially when told that her jealousy was for my sake, I couldn’t help but feel partly responsible. As if making excuses, I said: ‘Even if it was for my sake, I never noticed you loved me at all—how could I? You yourself declared it, did you not? That you could never love me, so we should cancel our forced engagement and part ways—that it would clear both our minds.’” “Yes, you *said* that,” she replied, “but in my heart, it wasn’t so. When I saw how close you and Matsutani Hideko seemed, I couldn’t bear it. If I parted ways with you as he suggested, I hoped your heart might turn back to me in time—so I went to Italy.” “When I returned and both heard and saw how you and Hideko were growing ever closer, I thought I would go mad. Yes, you two were hateful—no, I wanted to kill both you and Hideko!”

No matter how driven by jealousy one may be, to have strayed from the path of humanity means being utterly devoid of true goodness—for when baser impulses outweigh virtue, such a person is none other than a villain who must be cast out. Be that as it may, this remained an exceedingly troublesome and dangerous matter for me—I had no wish to hear of it. "No, Miss O-Ura," I said, "let us set aside past emotions and speak only of facts." Whether too cold-hearted I cannot say, but having declared this plainly, I pulled my chair slightly closer to her and extended only my hand for her to grasp as requested. O-Ura, seeming to gather some strength, took my hand and said, "Yes—speaking of emotions only worsens one's mood. Let us forget them. Let us forget them. I shall state only the facts," her manner like one clinging to a lifeline.

Chapter Ninety-Nine: The Lingering Enigma

I, eager to address the lingering doubts, began, “First and foremost, how did you vanish from that study? That remains a great unanswered question—” when O-Ura interjected, “No—I shall explain everything from the beginning,” and finally commenced her account. “Konsai Fujin and I first met Takanawatari Nagazo at a hotel in Italy.” “At the time, I didn’t know who he was, but when I mentioned Ghost Tower, he immediately declared that he had been its owner until recently and had just sold it to Mr. Marube Asao. Once he learned I was Marube’s adopted daughter, he suddenly began currying favor with me. Believing I had encountered someone resolute enough to uncover Matsutani Hideko’s past, I fully indulged his overtures. Later, when I mentioned Hideko—speculating she might be the former maid Furuyama O-Tori, who went to America and returned disguised as a lady after making money—he questioned me in detail about her appearance. ‘No,’ he said, ‘she doesn’t resemble O-Tori. But does her left hand have any distinguishing marks?’ When I replied that her left hand was concealed under an unusual glove, his expression changed in shock. ‘Then,’ he concluded gravely, ‘it may be that Wata Natsuko—the foster mother killer—has somehow returned from the dead in altered form.’”

“Over time, he perceived how deeply I resented Hideko and ultimately declared that if I would but consent to become his wife, we could join forces to strip away Hideko’s disguise and make her suffer any manner of torment. Of course, I had no intention of truly becoming his wife—I saw it merely as a temporary stratagem. Though I answered in a manner calculated to entice him—suggesting that becoming his wife wasn’t entirely out of the question—my true aim was to observe *your* methods. And so, as you witnessed, we returned to this country together.”

“He insisted one glance at Hideko’s face would expose her as Wata Natsuko,” she continued. “Confident in this, he attended Ghost Tower’s soirée—yet when he finally met her, the shock nearly made him faint. At first glance she seemed unmistakably Natsuko, yet upon closer inspection, she somehow appeared entirely different. This baffling contradiction defied understanding. He declared the only solution was to remove her left glove and reveal what lay beneath—only then could he deliver a definitive judgment.”

“From then on, I waited solely for the chance to snatch Hideko’s glove and confess my true feelings to you—until the day you spoke of arrived: the day of my disappearance.” “That day, I sneaked alone into the study, thinking you or Hideko might come to read. But Nagazo had long suspected my feelings for you and seemed to be watching me with jealous intent. He came to the window and spat resentful words. Fearing that if either you or Hideko saw him there, everything would be ruined, I explained this to him and drove him away. As he left, you entered through another door.”

“You already know what happened afterward without me having to say it.” “From there, disappointed by your words, I left toward the garden and encountered Matsutani Hideko. Thinking that forcibly removing her left glove in front of you would be the quickest path, I lured her under the pretense of having something to discuss and led her back to the study—only to find you were no longer there. Or rather, as I later learned, you had suffered grave injuries and collapsed behind the bookcase, unable to utter a sound—listening all the while to my exchange with Hideko.”

“Since we’re on the subject, I’ll declare everything plainly: your injury was also Nagazo’s doing. Though I drove him away and he initially left through the window, he feigned departure only to return. Knowing the room’s structure better than anyone, he knew there was a secret passage between the walls and slipped into it to observe unseen. As he watched me say those things to you, he concluded that as long as you lived, he could never make me his wife. Though he claims jealousy blinded him—after I left, when you approached the wall and turned your back precisely where Nagazo lurked—he seized the chance to quietly open the hidden door and stab you.”

That Nagazo would do such a thing came as no surprise to me. Yet until this very moment, I had been unable to conclusively believe it was him; moreover, having been unaware of secret doors and passages within the walls, I had considered these events utterly inexplicable mysteries. Now, with this revelation, one could only wonder what further unexpected incidents O-Ura's testimony might yet disclose.

Chapter 100: The Seed of Success Of course, Ghost Tower was a strange structure with many secret places, but I had not known there was a hiding spot behind the wall of his study—not even Detective Mori Mondo had been able to detect it. As I listened intently, wondering what other mysteries might yet be revealed in this direction, O-Ura continued her account step by step. “Since neither Hideko nor I knew at the time that you had been injured—no, stabbed—and lay collapsed behind the bookcase, we assumed no one could hear us. We spoke as we wished and fought as fiercely as we desired—you must already know this. In the end, I prevailed and snatched Hideko’s left glove to see what lay beneath. There remained a crescent-shaped bite mark from Okon’s teeth—irrefutable proof she was Wata Natsuko! Natsuko, shocked and enraged, pressed upon me with ferocious intensity, declaring I would not leave that room unless I swore never to reveal this secret.” The moment I realized she was the woman who had killed even her foster mother and escaped prison, facing her for even an instant became unbearable. Desperate to seize the room key, open the door, and flee, I renewed our struggle—no longer a battle of words but of bodies. I lunged for the key; she fought to keep it. As we wrestled, my foot slipped on the polished floor, and I fell with a thud. Then, from the corner of the adjoining room, came a voice choked with agony.

“It was your voice, but neither of us realized it at first. We were both startled to think someone might have overheard us—though if I had to say who was more shocked, it was Hideko. For me, being overheard wouldn’t have caused much trouble, but for Hideko, if anyone had heard, she would have been utterly unable to maintain her identity. That’s why she rushed toward the voice… and right after that, the strange incident of my disappearance occurred.”

“People made a great fuss over my disappearance and Miss Urahara’s vanishing—but there was no need for such suspicion! As I lay on the floor trying to rise, another strange sound reached my ears—faint yet distinct—from the side. When I turned to look, a door had opened in a section of the wall where there had been none before, as though lifting a lid. There was Takanawatari Nagazo peering out from it! Since I had been struggling to find a way out through that door, I was overjoyed at this sight. Nagazo, who seemed to have overheard everything, pressed a finger to his lips and beckoned me—his meaning clear: ‘Come here quietly without making a sound.’ I did as instructed, rising softly and approaching him. Nagazo pulled me into the dark space between the walls and closed the door without a sound. He said: ‘No one but me knows of this secret passage. If we hide here now, we can corner Hideko thoroughly.’”

“I was delighted by Nagazo’s words about cornering Hideko and replied, ‘Please handle it well.’ Thereupon, Nagazo took my hand, led me down from between the walls to beneath the floor, and placed me in a cellar-like space. ‘Wait here quietly until I return to fetch you,’ he instructed, then immediately departed. With no knowledge of how to escape that place, I had no choice but to obey Nagazo’s orders and await his return.”

“After nightfall, he came to retrieve me. Since he carried a shaded lantern this time, I could tell it was him. In one hand, he held the tablecloth that had been in the study—an Indian fabric I recognized. When I asked why he had brought it, he replied wordlessly, ‘Just watch. This will be the seed of success.’ Though I didn’t understand then, I later realized: when they threw a woman’s corpse into the moat, they wrapped it in that tablecloth.”

Hearing all of this, I felt almost terrified—was even the corpse retrieved from the moat Takanawatari Nagazo’s doing? However deep his villainy might run, what rose before my fear was a single suspicion: Who exactly was that corpse? The question remained unanswerable even now. At the time, Mori Mondo had claimed the headless state of the body paradoxically made clues easier to obtain, adding that “the head could be traced in London”—but had he truly secured sufficient evidence there? Though I had yet to hear those details, the mystery lingered as vividly as yesterday. Believing O-Ura might clarify this very moment, I grew impatient for her next words and asked: “But who exactly was that woman’s corpse from back then?”

Chapter 101: The True Demon "Who exactly was that woman's corpse from back then?" I asked. When she said it had been "obtained from London," Mori Mondo's earlier words about London connections no longer seemed baseless. I exclaimed: "From London?!" "Well, I don't know the details," she replied, "but he bribed an assistant at the Anatomy Institute to acquire that corpse." This must have been what they meant by being left speechless. To secretly procure corpses from the Anatomy Institute—what depths of depraved ingenuity had this man plumbed?

“When I saw it, the corpse already lacked a head,” said O-Ura. “Nagazo likely had his London assistant sever the head and dispose of it by cremation alongside other remains. Thus, we never learned whose corpse it was—presumably some woman who perished from illness in a paupers’ hospital.” “I’m appalled you consented to such a ghastly scheme,” I retorted. Yet considering her past conduct—luring Hideko into a tiger’s chamber, scheming murder—this was hardly shocking. What hesitation could one expect from a woman who contemplates killing? “I did protest initially,” she admitted, “but Nagazo insisted this was the only way to retaliate against Hideko. In the end, I relented—surrendering my rings and garments for him to dress the corpse as my likeness before wrapping it in that Indian cloth and casting it into the moat.” “That you loathed Hideko enough to endorse such wickedness speaks to profoundly karmic entanglement,” I observed coldly. “Evidently, nothing short of her demise would satisfy you.” “But doesn’t Hideko forfeit any right to exist?” she countered. “Nagazo claimed executing her wouldn’t be mere murder—it would enact divine retribution! At the time, it made sense… yet now I repent. This very remorse compels me to confess everything.”

"This much at least didn't seem like a lie—one wouldn't confess to such lengths unless tormented by profound regret. 'Your regret comes too late,' I said." "It truly was too late," she replied. "After that incident, I felt divine retribution raining down upon me endlessly. When they soon pulled that corpse from the moat and your testimony proved it wasn't O-Ura—when I realized Takanawatari's scheme had completely failed—I wanted to flee to the ends of the earth. I told him as much, but he kept reassuring me there were still various plans to try, urging me to patiently wait until the final act. Yet all the while, he pressed me to marry him. Had this been earlier, I would've refused outright—but having sunk so deep into wickedness together, I could no longer refuse. Especially since he threatened at every turn: if I didn't become his wife, he'd expose my hiding in this house to the world, or claim I'd never resurface unless I clung to him. In the end... I obeyed his words and became his wife."

“Well then—you managed to conduct a wedding while hiding like this?” “Yes—Takanawatari arranged everything skillfully. He altered my appearance and took me on a night train to the neighboring state. There too—using bribes—he convinced a monk at an impoverished temple to perform the ceremony. We returned here two nights later.” “If you’ve gone so far as to hold a formal ceremony—then I suppose you must rely on his affection for life.”

O-Ura grew increasingly resentful. “Oh, oh—what love? What heart does *he* possess? His sole aim was to reinstate me as Marube’s adopted daughter and thereby seize Uncle’s fortune! He said he had to act before Uncle drafted a will for Hideko’s sake—that’s why he embedded himself in the Marube household for now. He wouldn’t even return to me! Alone in this room, I pondered his true nature... and grew terrified. Now I’m utterly at a loss for what to do!”

Hearing this, I felt as though scales had fallen from my eyes. Until now, I had vaguely suspected Takanawatari Nagazo of being dubious, but never imagined him capable of such villainy. Now I saw clearly: every mystery connected to Ghost Tower since its acquisition—my injury, O-Ura’s disappearance, the suspicious corpse—all were his doing. Indeed, he must also be Uncle’s poisoner! For he believed that by killing Uncle and framing Hideko for the crime, at least half the Marube fortune would fall to O-Ura. To this end, he had entrenched himself in Ghost Tower; to this end, he had hastily made O-Ura his wife in these urgent circumstances. Worse still—he surely intended to steal and destroy the will Uncle had recently drafted for Hideko’s benefit! That I had failed to perceive such depths of wickedness until now—I was a fool beyond measure.

Now I saw—he was a born archvillain, a true demon clad in human skin. He must have lived a life of pure wickedness long before ever setting foot in Ghost Tower. As I unwittingly traced back through past events, I grasped an even graver truth: Could it be that Takanawatari Nagazo himself had been the true killer of Okon—the crime for which Hideko, then known as Natsuko, had been condemned? What difference lay between his current scheme—poisoning Uncle to frame Hideko—and his past act of murdering her foster mother to pin the blame on Natsuko? Both sprang from the same mind, were executed by the same hands—identical in essence. Yes—precisely! Last night, Gonda Tokisuke had declared he could now identify the true culprit—and here he was! For if not Takanawatari Nagazo, who else could he have meant? Ah! How blind I had been—how utterly blind!

Chapter 102: Poison? Hai! That Takanawatari Nagazo had killed Okon was not a claim supported by concrete evidence—yet I sensed it to be true. Though mere intuition held no authority, I perceived it as naturally as a compass points north; I could not conceive of this being mistaken. Why had this realization not arisen sooner? Had it come but one day earlier—then I, who might have saved Hideko myself without entrusting her to Gonda Tokisuke, who might at least have avoided conceding to Tokisuke to such lengths even if salvation proved impossible—now found myself powerless to alter this course.

The moment this thought struck me, I felt nothing but regret and fury. With a demeanor that spared no one’s dignity, I addressed O-Ura harshly: “Miss Ura—you’ve married a monster. You don’t even know one-tenth of Takanawatari Nagazo’s crimes! Throwing a corpse into the moat to harm Hideko is the least of his sins. For days now, he has been attempting to poison my uncle—that’s why he remains entrenched in Ghost Tower. Worse still, he murdered Okon eight years ago! Unlike ordinary villains, he wields terrifying cunning—every wicked act he commits is meticulously framed to cast suspicion on others. When poisoning my uncle, he engineered it to implicate Hideko. When killing Okon, he did the same—pinning all blame on Wata Natsuko while escaping unscathed himself!” O-Ura cried out, “What?! He killed Okon—and even tried to poison Uncle? Is he truly such a villain? And I… I’ve become that monster’s wife?!”

Though O-Ura herself was said to be a villain no less than Nagazo, nevertheless—being a woman—she had a weakness of spirit and could not match a man’s resolve. No sooner had she uttered these words than she fainted, collapsing backward onto the sofa. I couldn’t afford to tend to O-Ura no matter what—now that I’d learned all this, I had to find Hideko as quickly as possible. No—wait! Even if I found Hideko, I was still bound by my pact with Gonda Tokisuke—I couldn’t utter a single word of comfort to her. I had to feign unwavering belief that she remained a filthy criminal. The truth about Okon’s killer being exposed, the poisoner targeting Uncle—I couldn’t even breathe a word of it! What an excruciating predicament! Yet I had no choice but to search for her—no choice but to find her and act.

Fortunately, O-Ura had regained consciousness by then. Judging she’d recover on her own from this point, I dismissed her with “I’ll send someone to tend to you,” exited the room, summoned the house’s mistress to instruct basic care, and stepped outside. My horse—tethered to a garden tree—was nowhere to be seen, but this was no time to fret over livestock. As I strode out, the same stableboy came hurrying from afar with my horse in tow. Feigning triumph, he declared: “You’d tied it carelessly, sir! It broke free, but I chased after it and managed to catch it!” Nonsense—he’d clearly untied it himself for a joyride and now spun this tale for a reward. Though deeply suspicious, I tossed him a small silver coin and took the reins. Peering at my face, he added: “Now that you’ve paid this much… I’ll tell you the big news you’ve been wanting to hear.” Since I was desperate for any clue about Hideko’s whereabouts, I demanded, “What is this ‘big news’?” The stableboy said, “It’s about that beauty you’re searching for—the one wearing the dusk-colored kimono.” “How did you know I was looking for her?” “I rode this horse to the station—no, chased after it when it ran off—and heard from a carriage driver.” “What do you know?” “I know something worth two silver coins.” I produced more coins and handed them over. The stableboy continued: “Then I’ll tell you—that beauty came here early this morning.” “To this house? From her husband—” “She met an old woman and bought a small bottle filled with something dangerous.” “Dangerous how?” “Something she doesn’t sell openly. Handled discreetly in the back room—even constables don’t catch on.” “Poison?” “Yes.”

If Hideko had truly bought poison, she must have intended to take it herself this time—though Gonda had definitively declared she wasn’t the sort of woman to commit suicide, circumstances dictated otherwise. For a woman like Hideko, who carried the grand secret mission of clearing her name, to find not only that mission unachievable but also no escape from fresh false accusations—one couldn’t say she would never resort to suicide. Even placing myself in her position, I saw almost no path but self-destruction. Though I didn’t know where she’d gone with that poison, I had to find her quickly and prevent her death at all costs—yet as these thoughts raced through me, noon had already passed. She might have already taken her life. “And when was this?” I demanded. “It was right after I woke up this morning—six hours ago now.” “Do you know where that beauty went from there?”

“Of course I know—I followed her all the way to where she settled down. This information’s truly worth three silver coins.”

Chapter 103: What Mystery?

With matters having come to this, there was no choice but to yield to the stableboy's demands for payment and press him about Hideko's whereabouts. I snatched five or six coins from my coin purse and thrust them at him. “Now—where did that beauty go?” “She must’ve thought she couldn’t risk being seen—so instead of taking the main road, she slipped straight into the backstreets right from here.” “And after entering the backstreets?” “From there—well—she headed toward the tower.” “To Ghost Tower?” “Yes.” “And you don’t know what happened after that?” “No—if she’d taken the main road, I wouldn’t have noticed. But since she turned into the backstreets, I wondered where she was headed and decided to follow her. The old woman here always tells me: ‘No need to watch those who hide nothing, but always keep eyes on sneaky ones—it’ll bring profit.’ And it’s true! So I trailed her discreetly. She entered Ghost Tower’s backyard, crouched by Wata Natsuko’s grave at the moat-side, and wept for twenty minutes. Then she opened a window facing the moat and slipped inside—must’ve used the window instead of the main entrance to avoid being spotted.”

The situation had grown increasingly suspicious. For her to sneak into her own home through a back window was no ordinary matter—especially since she had purchased poison. My suspicion that she intended to commit suicide secretly now seemed all but confirmed. There was no time for further questions; I needed to rush back to Ghost Tower immediately. Yet given this had occurred five or six hours prior, she might already be dead. As I hastily grabbed the horse's reins and prepared to mount, the stableboy interjected: "This isn't the end of the story—I saw what happened after that." I thrust another silver coin at him. "Out with it—quickly!" "Seein' as how it seemed strange-like," he said, "I circled back to Ghost Tower after my errand and kept watch. Then from a queer window—she stuck her head out." "Which window?" "The one right below that big clock." My room—could she have killed herself there? "Is that all?" I demanded. "Yessir. She popped out just for a blink then ducked back in. Didn't show herself again after." "What time was this?" "After you came here—'bout an hour past now."

“If she was alive an hour ago, she might not have killed herself yet—perhaps she was writing a farewell note in my room. There was no need to inquire further. I immediately leaped onto my horse and returned to Ghost Tower at nearly bullet-like speed. Having a particular matter in mind, before ascending to the tower’s rooms, I first asked a servant: ‘What of Takanawatari Nagazo?’ The servant replied: ‘He has been resting in his room since the other day due to a heart condition.’” “Does he know that I returned to this house this morning?” “No—there’s no way he could know.” “If he doesn’t know, that’s all the better—make absolutely certain he remains unaware.”

If he was bedridden with a heart condition, he would likely remain in this house for the time being. After all, given that he was now the focal point of everything, I had to take measures to ensure he didn’t escape. Since he remained unaware that I’d uncovered his crimes, he undoubtedly intended to stay here and continue his wicked deeds. Though there was no immediate fear of him fleeing, I reasoned it best he remain ignorant of my return. With this in mind, I instructed the servant as before—but being no deity, I couldn’t foresee that his ignorance of my return would lead to yet another horrific tragedy.

I immediately ascended to my room at the top of the tower. My desperate hope that Hideko might be there proved futile—she had vanished without a trace. Yet she had undoubtedly been present, just as the stableboy claimed—the brush tip resting against my desk still bore fresh ink from where she had leaned to write something. A silk handkerchief lay nearby, unmistakably hers from the lingering scent of her perfume. When I picked it up, its dampness could only be tears. If she had written something through her weeping, it must have been a final note—yet though I searched every corner, no such letter could be found. Having exhausted all possibilities, I returned to the desk where a large book lay open at its cover—the ancestral Bible I had discovered in this room years earlier when first visiting the tower with my uncle. There on the inner cover remained the incantation I still remembered verbatim: "A hundred measures of bright pearls, royal blessings bestowed; demonic monks steal them away, lamenting nightwater dragons..." That she had left this passage exposed now—was it some cryptic message? The more I pondered whether Hideko meant me to decipher this clue, the more my dread intensified. Had she cast herself into Ghost Tower's depths—where even its architect ancestor had fallen centuries ago, his corpse never recovered? Could this opened incantation be her final testament?

Chapter 104: An Object That Catches the Eye

Could Matsutani Hideko have thrown herself into the depths of this tower—the same tower where even its founder was said to have fallen in, never to escape, his cries of “Save me! Save me!” echoing futilely as he perished in anguish? The mere thought chilled me to the bone. Though I wished to believe otherwise, weighing all circumstances left me no choice but to conclude she had indeed taken that fatal plunge. Had she truly cast herself down, what state might she be in now at the tower’s nadir? Had she swallowed the poison purchased at Chigusa-ya, becoming a denizen of the netherworld beyond pain’s reach? Or did she still draw breath—wracked by misfortune, brooding over life’s cruelties, weeping alone until spent? Either way, such recklessness! Had she waited but an hour or two for my return, she would have learned the dreadful false accusation staining her could be cleansed—that death held no necessity. Ah! No words suffice for this regret and outrage. Truly, fate dealt her naught but misfortune. For years she endured hardships, clinging to her secret mission to clear her name—unyielding, unbroken, tormenting herself—only to have villains and vile circumstance bar her path at the threshold of success. To resign herself in despair and cast her body into the unreachable beyond—what tragedy! Has greater pity ever existed? The more I dwelled on it, the more her anguish pierced me. I could not abandon her thus. I resolved to descend into the tower’s depths myself—if escape proved impossible, then let me die with Hideko.

Looking back now, it was indeed a reckless decision—yet at that moment, I did not perceive it as reckless. Chasing after Hideko and descending into the tower’s depths had become my only conceivable path in this vast world. Whether I would reach her in time consumed me utterly. The thought that I might arrive too late—finding her corpse beyond revival, myself trapped with no means to die nor return to the world above—never once crossed my mind. Crying out “The tower’s depths! The tower’s depths!” in my heart alone, I climbed upward toward the clock chamber.

I climbed to the clock chamber—how could one descend to the tower’s depths? Since ancient times, countless individuals had attempted to uncover the great secret rumored to lie below, yet none had succeeded save our ancestor who built this tower and perished trapped within its bowels. In this modern age, only Hideko had ventured there. My sole clue lay in the incantation’s phrase “when bells toll, green sways”—when the clock chimed, that verdant disk-like panel would shift, allowing faint light to seep through its crevice as described in “glimmers flicker.” Though I bitterly regretted having neglected Hideko’s repeated urgings to study these verses—she had warned me both before and after that incident—surely fervent thinking could unravel their meaning? The green disk’s movement must be the starting point. If one slipped through that dimly lit aperture, following “ascend descend stairs wind” as written, twisting paths surely awaited. Judging there was no need to wait long—the clock’s next chime was imminent—I checked my pocket watch: precisely five minutes before one o’clock in the afternoon.

The tolling of one o'clock was my signal. Like a racehorse awaiting the starting pistol, I tensely approached the green disk, staring intently—now the bell would toll for one o'clock, now the bell would toll for one o'clock, now the disk would shift—when my fixed gaze suddenly caught on an object: a strip of silk caught and protruding from the disk's edge. The unmistakable dusk-colored weave was undeniably from Hideko's kimono.

At the sight of this, my heart leapt as though my chest would burst. With evidence so irrefutable, it became clearer than fire that Hideko had slipped through this green disk to descend into the tower's depths. As she passed through, the hem of her garment had caught on the disk's edge—she must have torn it off and pressed forward. There was no more time to delay. Gripping the silk fragment, I did not wait for the clock's toll—the hour struck one. The clock's bell rang out. The green disk shifted. The dusk-colored silk I clutched slipped free from the moving disk and came fully into my hand.

Chapter 105: Prisoner of the Clock This marked only the second time I had witnessed the green disk move with the clock's chime—the first being a singular occurrence I'd barely grasped. How far it might shift or what consequences followed remained utterly unknown to me. Yet I fixated on this conviction: if I slipped through its crevice the moment it stirred, all would be well. The tolling of one o'clock in the afternoon became my signal—now was the time to infiltrate. I eagerly gripped the green disk—only for it to halt after opening less than one-tenth of its full diameter. The disk measured roughly two shaku across; had it moved seven or eight-tenths of its span to create an eighteen-inch gap, I might have slipped through. But a mere two-sun opening? No illusionist’s trickery would let me pass. Still, trusting in my vaunted strength, I resolved to force it open—much like Tajikarao-no-Mikoto, the mythic strongman who wrenched apart the Heavenly Rock Door in Eastern lore—and heaved at the disk with all my might. But the green disk proved stubbornly rigid—my strength utterly futile. Worse still, as the fading echoes of the clock’s toll dwindled, the disk began retreating, gradually sealing shut. No amount of resistance availed me. Had I persisted, my hands would have been crushed and severed like Hideko’s torn kimono hem. Ah, how frustrating! Biting back tears, I released my grip. The green disk closed completely, returning to its original state.

It was utterly incomprehensible—why had the Green Disk opened only this much? When I'd seen it previously, it had gaped wide enough to crawl through. Could Hideko, foreseeing I might pursue her, have sabotaged the mechanism to block full opening? Or perhaps even with this narrow aperture, were I to reach inside and disengage a hidden latch or halt some cogwheel, the Green Disk might yet yield—though this remained mere conjecture.

I racked my brain in every way imaginable, but it was futile—the Green Disk stood as unyielding as an iron fortress. With no other recourse, I resigned myself to wait for two o’clock to toll. Reluctantly, I waited—each moment stretched like a thousand years—yet finally, those thousand years passed. Two o’clock rang out. The Green Disk shifted once more, but alas! Its movement mirrored the prior hour’s: it opened merely an additional two sun compared to before—two sun per hour, totaling four sun of gap. Though doubled from earlier, a four-sun aperture still barred entry. Once again, disappointment weighed heavy as I endured another two-thousand-year wait for three o’clock, only to face renewed despair and wait further for four o’clock. Never before or since have I endured such futile waiting.

However, from waiting until three and four o'clock, I had made a slight discovery: the Green Disk moved approximately two sun with each toll of the clock's bell. At two o'clock, it opened two sun more than at one; at three o'clock, another two sun beyond two; and by four, it had opened a total of eight sun. By this progression, it would open one shaku at five o'clock, one shaku and two sun at six, and by twelve, finally open completely. This was not Hideko having tampered with the mechanism—it was simply how the machinery had been designed.

As I thought this, I realized two things. First, Hideko must have slipped through here between ten in the morning and noon—shortly before my arrival. Before ten o'clock, the Green Disk's gap would have been too narrow even for her delicate frame. Second, I too could only attempt passage after ten that night when it would open two shaku wide—enough to squeeze through somehow. The prospect of waiting idly until ten now seemed unbearable, yet unavoidable. To imagine what might be happening to Hideko in the tower's depths during these hours filled me with anguish no shield could deflect. Since lamenting inevitabilities proved futile, I resolved to endure until ten—only then discovering my body's true exhaustion: hunger gnawed at my stomach, drowsiness pressed upon my eyes like borrowed weights. How strange I'd remained oblivious to these discomforts while consumed by torment.

First and foremost, I had to restore my physical energy—so I left that place and even had a meal. While there, I checked on my uncle’s condition and confirmed there was no longer anything to worry about. Then I entered my room, set the alarm clock firmly to wake me at nine-thirty, and lay down. Though it felt as if barely thirty minutes had passed, I was roused by the alarm and sprang up to find it was already nine-thirty. My head throbbed dully, as though charged with pent-up electricity. Opening the window, I saw a winter rarity—the sky flowed black as spilled ink, lightning occasionally flashing through cloud fissures while distant thunder rumbled. Though no meteorologist, I thought this must be true tempest weather. Later, this night’s aberrant conditions would be sensationalized in meteorological journals as the “unusual climate of 1898.” Those in Britain at the time likely remember well how violently the storm raged. But I paid no heed to the weather. Recalling my prior ordeal at the spider farm, I refilled my matchbox and packed a half-dozen stealth candles into my satchel—prepared now for this journey to the underworld. Ascending to the clock chamber just as ten o’clock struck, I found the Green Disk had opened two shaku as anticipated. Without care for what lay beyond, I crawled snake-like into the gap. Inside, iron spikes arrayed like inverted caltrops snagged my clothes—doubtless how Hideko’s hem had torn—but I tore free without hesitation. What stunned me was the Green Disk’s interior: a clockwork labyrinth where gears and rods crowded every direction, jostling me with each movement. No space to stretch, no retreat now that the disk had sealed shut above me. Above and below offered no path forward. Trapped in this cramped cavity, I had become a prisoner within the clock itself.

Chapter 106: The Secret at the Bottom of the Tower

Being a prisoner inside a clock was a predicament one seldom hears of; I must inform the reader here that from ten o'clock until twelve—a full two hours—I remained trapped in that state. First, I lit a candle and surveyed my confines: the vertical space measured about four shaku—naturally too low to stand upright. To either side were walls that rang thick as stone when struck; clearly unbreakable and immovable. Though darkness obscured its full depth, this dead end surely lay behind the clock face itself—no more than two ken deep at most. Thus did my prison measure four shaku vertically and horizontally, with less than two ken of depth. Iron rods and gear-toothed wheels protruded sporadically from the cramped walls—a grotesque parody of a mechanical workshop.

There was no doubt Matsutani Hideko had entered this illusory prison cell before me—but where had she gone from here? With no visible escape route beyond vanishing into thin air, I turned to the incantation’s phrases: after “the bell tolls and green sways” came “ascend and descend,” yet I saw neither stairs nor descent. What manner of “winding stairway” could this mean? Had curiosity alone driven me here, fear would have rooted me in place—I’d have waited for eleven o’clock to retreat through the Green Disk’s shifting gap. But this was no idle whim. If Hideko had slipped into the tower’s depths from this point, retreating never once crossed my mind. I had to unravel the clock’s secrets and forge ahead, even if it meant losing my return path like our ancestors, even if I perished screaming below. No—it wasn’t that I welcomed such an end. Rather, such cowardice never surfaced; my heart overflowed with thoughts of Hideko, leaving no room for weakness.

I swept my candlelight around, searching for any hidden passage. Then I noticed something—behind the Green Disk that had shifted with the clock’s chime hung a thick iron chain. *What purpose does this chain serve?* I wondered first. Though it inevitably moved with the Green Disk, implying something was attached to its end that must also shift. Gripping the chain—it didn’t budge an inch—I traced its path deep into the chamber’s recesses. Stooping into the cramped space, I discovered: the chain connected to an iron gear. As this gear turned, the chain coiled around it, shortening—thereby causing the Green Disk’s sway. *But why these gear teeth?* Likely to engage another gear or be driven by one. Sure enough, beyond this gear lay a smaller one, from which another chain extended—its end anchored to the stone wall beside me.

This was perplexing—if the stone wall moved, that was one thing, but if it didn't, then this chain wouldn't budge either, meaning neither the small nor large gears—and consequently the Green Disk—could shift. Puzzled, I scrutinized the stone wall meticulously. Aha! I realized—this section of the wall formed a door! It must open in tandem with the clock's chime! Once opened, the chain, gears, and Green Disk would all move in unison. Emboldened by this discovery, I examined the area further. Calculating the gear ratios, I deduced that for every shaku the Green Disk moved, this stone door would open a mere three sun. This was daunting—even if the clock struck twelve and the Green Disk fully opened, the door would only part seven sun. Seven sun was too narrow to slip through—utterly useless. Yet since Hideko wasn't in this chamber, she must have escaped through here. There had to be another mechanism I couldn't see. At eleven o'clock, all would surely become clear—until then, I resolved to investigate thoroughly.

Having resolved myself thus, I examined everything with renewed fervor but found nothing further that made sense. The only thing I ascertained was that on one side of the door hung a sounding device—too large for a temple bell yet too small for a call bell. This must be the time-announcing bell. That it rang in tandem with the door’s movement made the phrase "the bell tolls and green sways" from the incantation grow ever clearer. But where was the clapper striking this bell? Ah—there were twelve protruding knobs on the door’s surface. These knobs must sequentially strike the bell. Yet with these knobs present, they would surely obstruct the door from retracting into the wall—unless when the bell tolled, some part of the wall shifted to allow passage despite them. Such intricate details would remain unknowable until the bell’s appointed hour.

Having resigned myself to wait for the bell to toll, I steadied my nerves and planted the candle on the floor. When I took out my pocket watch to check, though it felt as if an hour had passed since entering this place, barely thirty minutes had elapsed—it was only ten-thirty. Still needing to endure this interminable wait, I kept vigil when a bolt of lightning pierced through some unseen crevice in the ceiling, followed by thunder of such violence it seemed the storm raged directly overhead. Outside, wind must have been howling and rain lashing, but within this iron-and-stone chamber, only the thunder's roar penetrated—so tremendous I instinctively ducked my head. Soon after, the candle burned out, plunging us into absolute darkness. Unperturbed by my ample preparations, I calmly reached into my satchel for another candle. At that moment, an even more intense lightning flash erupted—so brilliant it seared my vision. Could this be divine assistance? By that ephemeral radiance, the tower's deepest secrets—previously imperceptible in candlelight—stood starkly revealed before my eyes.

Chapter 107: A Certain Scream What fortune might arise—the lightning that pierced through became divine atonement for me. By this light, the tower's deepest secrets were laid bare. Until that moment, I had paid no heed to the nature of the floor beneath me. But as I crouched there, an indescribable brilliance—equivalent to millions upon millions of candles—flashed through my lowered gaze, illuminating the floor's structure with crystalline clarity. Square-cut timbers formed a latticework grid, their crossbeams punctuated by mesh-like openings whose purpose eluded me—perhaps to prevent dust accumulation? Through these perforations, the radiance plunged deeper still, reaching the absolute nadir below. Though momentary, I glimpsed what appeared to be stone steps at the uttermost depth—doubtless corresponding to the "winding stairway" from the incantation.

And there below lay a figure—whether human or otherwise—draped in garments. Could this be Hideko? Before I could look closer, the lightning vanished, plunging everything back into darkness. I discerned nothing concrete, but perhaps it was Hideko's form—already having swallowed poison, lying lifeless. This thought gripped me with urgency; I had to reach the tower's depths at once. But nothing could be done until eleven o'clock struck. After relighting the candle and preparing to act the moment the clock's bell tolled—joy—eleven o'clock began sounding. Observing closely, it unfolded exactly as calculated: with each strike of the bell, the wall door opened six or seven *bu* at a time, precisely one-third the Green Disk's movement range. Yet even after eleven strikes, it wouldn't open a full *shaku*. I pressed my hands against the door attempting to force it wider, but it refused to yield to my strength. It moved solely in tandem with the bell's voice, each shift creating a gap at the wall's edge through which the twelve knobs on the door's surface passed unimpeded—one by one. A mechanism of exquisite intricacy.

Soon, eleven of the protruding knobs had retracted into the wall; the door had opened seven or eight sun. Thinking *Now!*, I applied force to the door once more—but alas! The gap through which the knobs passed had already closed, leaving the final remaining knob wedged in place—rendering any further opening impossible. Ah! Though the long-awaited eleven o’clock had tolled, I could not breach this checkpoint. Words failed to capture my bitterness and despair. But at last I understood—since it had been eleven o'clock, one of the twelve knobs remained lodged, preventing the door from opening fully. However, if midnight were to arrive, all those spiteful knobs would retract entirely, allowing one to wrench the door open with human strength. Thinking this, I looked back at the door only to find it had already swung shut again, returning to its original state. No amount of weeping or writhing would avail me—all I could do was wait for midnight. To endure this cramped space from ten o'clock until midnight—patience unthinkable under normal circumstances—yet with no means of escape, I was forced to bear the unbearable.

The anguish I endured during this interval defies detailed description—it felt as though three millennia had passed before midnight finally arrived. Just as I had deduced, the moment the clock finished tolling twelve times, all twelve protruding knobs retracted. I gripped the door and pulled. To my surprise, it swung open effortlessly, revealing an aperture wide enough for one or two people to pass through. I leapt with joy and slipped past, realizing this checkpoint could only be traversed at twelve o'clock. Had Hideko come through here at noon? If so, I might be trapped until tomorrow's noon.

Beyond the door lay another cramped, low passage where one could not stand upright. Yet since this surely led to the tower’s depths, I felt momentary relief—though thunder still rumbled faintly. Its echoes within the tower’s walls seemed like the vengeful growls of some spectral guardian enraged by my intrusion. After walking roughly one ken through the passage, I emerged into a space tall enough to hold my head upright and stood at the top of descending stairs. As I prepared to step down, I recalled the incantation’s phrase “ascend and descend.” Should there not be an upward path before descending? This direct downward route felt unnatural. Retracing my steps while examining both walls, I discovered it—on the right side of the narrow passage branched an even tighter fork slanting upward. Certain this was the true path, I crawled into the hole. The constriction forced me to wriggle through like a worm in a tube, but mercifully it lasted only one and a half ken before opening into walkable space again. Pausing there, I strained to hear any sound from below—when another thunderclap struck. From somewhere indeterminable came an acutely shrill scream. Whether human or beastly, I could scarcely tell—its horrific timbre suggested either a mortal’s death cry or a prey animal’s strangled shriek. The drawn-out wail reverberated through every nerve in my body, paralyzing my advance. What manner of voice was this?

Chapter 108: The Meaning of the Treasure Whose scream was that? A deep dread welled up within me, yet I could not possibly ascertain its source. Had Hideko encountered some peril in the tower’s depths? Such suspicions arose unbidden. "Miss Hideko! Miss Hideko!" I called out twice, but only my own voice echoed back terrifyingly through the void, met with no reply. At any rate, I couldn’t afford to waste time on such matters and pressed onward. Beyond this point lay only a single stairway leading upward through the tower—no branching paths to confuse me. Soon I reached what I presumed to be the summit: a chamber spanning five or six tatami mats. *By daylight, this must offer a splendid view through its windows,* I mused distractedly while surveying the room. On one side, I discovered a steeper descent than the path I’d taken here. *Ah—so this is the "ascend and descend" from the incantation.* I began my downward climb. After descending what felt like considerably more than my prior ascent, I reached another level—a flat-floored chamber of octagonal design, each wall bearing a hidden door. In total, seven passages branched from the entrance I’d used. With no clue which to take, I turned again to the incantation: *"Mysteries reside where diagrams lie unspoken."* Indeed, that diagram alone would have been indecipherable without prior knowledge of the passageways leading to this chamber. Had I studied it here after navigating those paths, much might have become clear—but tragically, it was gone. Torai Fujin had secretly sent it to Yōchūen (Spider Farm). What had become of it afterward? Regret now served no purpose, yet how bitterly I wished I’d memorized that diagram alongside the incantation! *Hideko urged me repeatedly to study it—had I heeded her, this confusion would never have come.* My remorse cut bone-deep.

In such moments, one must remain calm—haste only deepens confusion. Quietly, I took out my pocket watch and checked its compass to determine direction. Though I ascertained our orientation, greater mysteries remained. Where exactly was this chamber situated within the tower? Likely aligned with my quarters directly below the clock chamber—the length of stairways and corridors suggested as much. If that were indeed the case, this would lie behind my chamber. As I had previously described, my chamber was surrounded on all sides by veranda-like corridors, with only one side blocked off as a storage room. Yet I had never deeply considered what lay beyond that storage area. I had simply assumed no rooms existed beyond my own, but when accounting for the tower’s total area, such an assumption could hardly hold true—behind the storage space there must have been a chamber twice the size of mine or larger. Even considering the paths I had ascended and descended, it became clear that the tower contained numerous rooms.

As I pondered thus, the same terrifying scream echoed again—now less piercing, resembling the groan of an ailing person, and ceasing sooner than before. By my estimation, the sound had undeniably originated from my own chamber; it came neither from the tower’s depths nor heights. *What in the world had intruded into my room?* I felt an urge to turn back and investigate. Yet dwelling on my chamber’s affairs was futile, for I could not exit this section of the tower until tomorrow’s noon. I had no choice but to press onward toward the depths.

Without the diagram, there was nothing to be done, but first I had to open and inspect all eight doors. Since one led back to where I had descended from earlier, there was no need to check that passage. I inspected each of the remaining seven passages one by one. Some showed traces of rats' nests—*if only these rodents could speak*, I muttered while searching—*they might reveal the tower's secrets*. When I reached the final passage, I found merciful clarity: footprints pressed into the dust, their small heels unmistakably from a woman's shoes. What else could these be but Hideko's? I thanked Providence in earnest. Now I knew her location—she must have studied the diagrams thoroughly beforehand to descend straight to the tower's depths without hesitation. All I needed was to follow these tracks unerringly. Waving my candle like a hound sniffing out prey, I descended with meticulous care. Yet beyond this point sprawled a labyrinth rivaling the Eight Formations—paths stacked upon paths veering right then left, abruptly ascending only to plunge downward again. Without those footprints, navigation would have been impossible. *What purpose could justify such convoluted design?* If the legends of hidden treasure held truth, its value must be extraordinary indeed. The incantation's phrase "a hundred measures of bright pearls" echoed through my mind—was this the treasure's true meaning? With every step, my suspicions coiled tighter.

Chapter 109: A Skeleton Clad in Brocade Through corridors and staircases as intricately arranged as the Eight Formations—winding down only to circle back, descending only to wind anew—I at last stood upon what I believed to be the final marble staircase of my descent. After carefully considering my surroundings, this area seemed roughly level with the ground outside the tower. What lay below must have been some sort of cellar dug into the earth. Wondering how deep this cellar extended, I began descending the stone steps. Yet upon reflection, these were unmistakably the same stairs I had glimpsed earlier when lightning pierced through—those that had stretched endlessly downward in that fleeting vision. Though I'd only caught a momentary flash then, unable to discern details clearly, their appearance now struck me as eerily similar. Moreover, what I had perceived as a figure—human or otherwise—draped in clothing at the base of those stairs must lie here below. Could it be Hideko? I strained to look again, but by then the lightning's glow had vanished, leaving me sightless. Yet if I descended fully, I might confirm that reclining form. This thought left my spirit unsteady—an uncanny dread seeped into me, and my heart began pounding fiercely.

Step by step, I finally reached the bottom of the stairs. A figure lay sprawled, unmistakably human in shape. In the candlelight, its garments appeared to be woven from ancient brocade—completely unlike Hideko’s attire. Puzzled, I grasped whatever part I could reach—its back or some other place—and attempted to lift it. The fabric, evidently ancient, tore as silently as decaying leaves crumbling from a tree. By now, the candle had nearly burned out, with barely six sun left in my grip. After lighting a fresh one, I turned to inspect the figure’s head—and nearly fell backward in shock. What I had mistaken for a person was a skeleton—ancient, its bones blackened and fused without decay. Ah! A skeleton clad in brocade, lying at the tower’s foundation—such a thing defied all tales I’d ever heard.

But I quickly recalled—this skeleton must have been the ancestor who built this Ghost Tower centuries ago, who entered the tower's depths only to perish trapped, crying for help until his final breath. His remains had lain unrecovered to this day—the very wretched bones from the legend. How profound his regret must have been in those dying moments, how agonized his struggles—the thought that his resentment still lingered made him pitiable yet fearsome. Yet I could not leave this place without fully comprehending what lay before me. As if bound by invisible ropes to the corpse's side, I crouched motionless despite my body's protests, peering at its face—eyes that might once have glared with bitterness now mere hollow voids, while robust cheekbones jutted upward as if frozen in eternal anguish, their contours suggesting every torment he must have endured.

What astonished me further was how the skeleton's right hand remained clenched around an ancient copper key within its grip. Though I knew not what lock it opened, if the incantation's words—"a hundred measures of bright pearls, royal blessings bestowed"—referred to treasures hidden in this tower's depths, then this key must unlock them. Ah! This man—in life, he had erected this grotesque tower to conceal his hoard, perished in its bowels, and even in skeletal decay still clutched the vault's key, his hollow sockets eternally guarding the entrance. Such was the strange fate binding him to his treasure—a thought that overwhelmed me with awe.

In any case, leaving it as it was felt somehow disrespectful to his peace in the afterlife, so I took out my handkerchief, covered the skeleton’s face, and chanted a mournful dirge under my breath as a prayer for his soul. Unable to endure lingering any longer, I stood up and scanned the surroundings—surely Hideko must be near—but the feeble candlelight barely reached beyond one ken. When I tried raising it overhead to extend its reach, the flame struck the ceiling and snuffed out. This cellar allowed only six shaku between floor and ceiling. Relighting the candle a third time, I quietly surveyed the chamber. Though its full dimensions eluded me, scarlet-fabric-covered benches lined the walls into the depths, fronted by large cloth-draped boxes likely coffins. Their contents didn’t concern me. My eyes sought only Hideko—and there, collapsed face-down at a bench’s edge, lay an unmistakable figure. "Hideko! Hideko!" Why did she lie motionless? Had death already claimed her? I rushed over and grasped her hand—alas, it was ice-cold.

Chapter 110: Like Casting Aside a Viper The hand I had taken was ice-cold—exactly like a corpse’s—yet I sensed life still lingering in Hideko’s body. Had she truly died, despair would have overwhelmed me beyond restraint. Yet inexplicably, no such hopelessness took root. Instead, a conviction seized me: if I called to her with enough fervor, she might yet revive. Still clutching her frigid hand, I surveyed our surroundings. On a nearby bench—likely brought by Hideko—stood a candlestick whose wax had burned away long ago. I set my own candle upon it. Then I noticed a tiny vial near her head: unmistakably the poison purchased from Sensōya. My first thought was whether she had already drunk it—but mercifully, the cap remained sealed, its lethal contents undisturbed.

I lifted her corpse-like body with both hands, as if to revive her with my own warmth. Oh! Her body wasn't as cold as her extremities—there was ordinary warmth, even a faint pulse seeming to beat. "Miss Hideko! Miss Hideko!" When I called gently to her, Hideko faintly opened her eyes. In a voice so thin it was unclear whether it carried sound—utterly like a soliloquy—she murmured, "Is this the world after death?" A love that drowned both body and soul surged within me. I yearned to comfort her with tender words, yet alas—my ironclad promise to Gonda Tokisuke forbade me from uttering even a shred of affection. The cruelty of that vow pierced me anew through every fiber of my being, but there was no choice. With only ordinary words, I replied: "No—you haven't died. I came to save you just in time. This is still the living world." Though her words seemed responsive, half remained a soliloquy as she murmured, "I haven't died yet—that's... that's disastrous. I must die without fail—for everyone's sake."

That she uttered these words even in her sleep made clear how resolutely she had resolved herself—particularly how the phrase "for everyone's sake" perfectly encapsulated her current agonizing predicament. The twin false accusations clinging to her—impossible to clear—threatened not only her own life but the family's honor, and by extension, even my insignificant name should the authorities apprehend her. Her decision to choose death over burdening all around her aligned exactly with what I had discerned. Suppressing my fervor proved impossible. "No, Miss Hideko—you need not die! Your false accusations have been wholly dispelled. Yes—we can now prove your innocence beyond all doubt. That is why I have come to tell you."

Hideko seemed to regain her senses for the first time, warily glancing around her surroundings. At last appearing to recall her situation, she murmured, “Ah, I see… We’re still at the tower’s base? But how did you manage to come here?” Her questioning voice remained faint but had gained considerable strength. I responded: “Well, you see—I deduced both your destination and purpose, so I followed. Yes, by doing the same things you did to come here.” “It took me eight hours to get here—from noon until past eight at night. There were so many sections along the way with rusted locks, doors that wouldn’t budge… I’d have been better off dying along the way!” “There’s no need to speak of dying anymore. Since I simply followed your footprints, I didn’t endure hardships as severe as yours—though even so, it took me from just past noon until now, all because I couldn’t unravel the clock’s secret.” “But you’ve finally unraveled the clock’s secret, haven’t you? For a time, I prayed you’d solve it quickly—yet now I wished to keep you from discovering it. When I came here, I reset all the mechanisms to their original state so that until twelve o’clock arrives and the door opens naturally, there’d be no way through.” Even as I recognized this exchange as a crossroads, I replied, “Ah, so there’s a way to pass through without it being twelve o’clock? Not knowing that, I suffered terribly.” As Hideko gradually regained her composure, she seemed increasingly bewildered by her own circumstances. “You… you—Mr. Marube!” she cried out sharply. “Yes?” I responded. Hideko: “If you possess even a shred of your usual mercy, I implore you—do not pursue me further. Let me depart as I am now.”

This was by no means an entreaty I could readily accept. Yet Hideko's resolve to depart this place—regardless of my consent—permeated every inflection of her voice. When considered, her determination proved far from unreasonable. Having learned that I—the man who had once pledged to marry her—now regarded her as a tainted woman unworthy of even affectionate words, how could she remain? For one of Hideko's temperament, crystalline in its purity as her name suggested, this single circumstance alone would have compelled her to harden her heart irrevocably.

As I dwelled on this, my complaints seemed petty—yet my resentment toward the vow with Gonda Tokisuke only deepened. How I yearned to plead, *"Stay here as my future wife—my love and respect remain unchanged!"* How could I not speak these tender words? Maddened by the thought *"Let all promises be damned!"* I seized Hideko’s hand once more—yes, seized it—only to recoil instantly. For if I broke our pact and provoked Gonda’s wrath, his vengeance would rain upon us both. Hideko—branded a foster mother’s murderer, an attempted patricide, an unprecedented poisoner who even plotted a prison break—would face unimaginable torments. Even fleeing to the world’s end, she’d never know peace. Gonda’s warning echoed: *"Kind words now would destroy her. To truly love her, you must coldly cast her aside."* Thus I flung her hand away as one might discard a viper. What contemptible cruelty! Had Hideko noticed this act in her lucid state, she’d have renounced me utterly—nay, she already had last night. Now she’d surely despise me as a lifelong enemy. Yet my anguish rivaled hers.

Chapter 111: A Fragment of the Secret Mission Hideko, in her agitated state, showed no awareness of how I had released her hand as though casting aside a viper—a small mercy. Yet now that her hand was free, she readied herself to depart at once. In stern tones, I declared, “Miss Hideko, there is no need whatsoever for you to throw away your life or hide yourself,” while swiftly snatching up the bottle of his poison she had left behind and concealing it within my robe. Hideko noticed this yet made no move to reclaim it, merely pondering with evident bewilderment before asking: “Why… why didn’t I take that poison before you arrived? What state was I in when you came?”

"Indeed, even I cannot comprehend this one thing—why she did not drink the poison before I arrived. Why then did she lie here collapsed like a corpse without having taken it?" Hideko seemed to finally recall. "Ah, I understand now—I took out the bottle, but before leaving this world, I felt compelled to pray to God and dedicate my future. I prayed for a long time... And just as I finally reached for the bottle, a terrifying flash of lightning pierced through, illuminating this chamber as bright as day." Indeed, it must have been precisely when I had glimpsed the stone steps of this chamber far below from within the tower’s clock.

“From that moment onward, I remember nothing.” At that moment, she had been struck by the electrical force and instantly lost consciousness. Direct contact with electricity causes instant death, while mere exposure to its shockwaves can render one unconscious—such phenomena are well-documented. Nevertheless, this defied all reason—that she had collapsed without swallowing the poison or regaining awareness until my arrival, precisely at the brink of self-destruction. No metaphor could capture this intervention, whether divine or otherwise. Had that violent lightning not flashed when it did, I would have discovered only Miss Hideko’s corpse here. This realization kindled genuine gratitude toward God within me. I said: “Miss Hideko, this proves God heard your prayers and extended His saving hand. To receive such grace—one might call it a one-in-a-thousand occurrence, though in truth it scarcely happens once in ten thousand lives. Yet even now, you mustn’t contemplate death or disappearance.”

Deeply moved by this counsel, she—who had been poised to depart—settled back onto the bench once more. For a time, she closed her eyes and placed a hand over her heart. As her composure gradually returned, she offered renewed thanks to God. I too prayed alongside her. When she finished praying, she slowly turned to me. “Mr. Marube, your coming here means part of my secret mission has been fulfilled.” I replied vaguely, “Ah...” “I had three secret missions,” she continued. “I thought I’d leave this world without accomplishing any, yet one has been achieved—truly God’s mercy.” “What do you mean by ‘one part’?” “I wished to reveal the treasure hidden as this tower’s secret. At first I meant to retrieve it myself, but after meeting you, I concluded you should be the one. That’s why I repeatedly urged you to decipher the incantation and study the diagrams.” Now I understood—it was this Hideko who had not only urged me but actually placed those clues before me. “So it was you?” I said. “I never realized—I hadn’t studied them thoroughly enough.” “That’s why it frustrated me so,” she said, her voice steadying. “But now that you’ve reached this chamber deep beneath the tower, it’s as good as having solved the riddle.” She paused, then added with renewed resolve: “Mr. Marube—my tainted name has soiled both yours and my father’s. For that, I can never apologize enough. Yet knowing you’ll retrieve the treasure from this tower’s depths... I feel as though I’ve made some small atonement. My heart grows lighter for it.”

"I understood the literal meaning of the words, but couldn't grasp what this 'treasure at the tower's base' truly signified. 'Huh—the treasure at the tower's base?' I asked again. Hideko's eyes widened in astonishment. 'You still haven't realized?'"

Chapter 112: Nightwater Dragon’s Lament "Could such treasure truly lie beneath this tower?" I remained half-convinced. Noticing my hesitation, Hideko pressed with vexed intensity: "Do you doubt it? If not to hide treasure, why else would one build such a tower—impossible for anyone to enter or exit?" I replied, "No—I believe it conceals some secret. But whether that secret is treasure... I cannot confirm." "That’s precisely why I urged you to study the incantation—if you properly consider its meaning, everything becomes clear." "I’m afraid I still can’t interpret it that clearly."

“Then I shall explain what I’ve concluded after investigating this family’s records and oral traditions preserved through generations. Since we’ve no time for lengthy discourse, I’ll be brief.” With this, Hideko began her explanation. “You are surely aware that this family’s founding ancestor descended from the royal bloodline of the House of Lancaster,” Hideko began. “When Henry VI, the last king of Lancaster, faced challenges to his throne from the House of York upon his death, he gathered all the gold, silver, and jewels passed down through the royal court and entrusted them to our ancestor. He declared that even if the throne passed to York, treasures surpassing its worth would remain within our lineage. Hence the incantation states: *‘A hundred measures of bright pearls—the king bestows auspicious fortune.’* Afterward, civil war indeed broke out with York’s claim to the throne, forcing our ancestor to abandon court and go into hiding. Among the monks frequenting court at that time was one driven by greed—before rebel forces could advance on the capital, he seized the treasure under pretense of custodianship, loading it onto countless horses and carts to steal away. This ‘wicked monk’ in the incantation refers to him. Yet even this thief found himself unable to hide such royal treasures—more coveted than any throne—and fearing rebel armies would claim them for war funds, he sank everything into a lake’s depths. Truly ill-fated was our ancestor—exiled to desolate lands resembling penal colonies, he died fretting over the treasure’s fate while never resurfacing in society. Still, he sired one legitimate son in exile who inherited only vague knowledge of the treasure’s existence. This son bequeathed to his own children the lifelong quest to find it—a purpose sustained through generations until our tower-building ancestor finally uncovered that monks had sunk it underwater. Doesn’t ‘The wicked monk stole away while nightwater dragons wailed’ clearly indicate this submergence? And with ‘Search lakebeds to return family jewels to their caskets,’ doesn’t it become evident that he ultimately retrieved these treasures from watery depths?”

Now that I heard it explained this way, the meaning of the incantation became perfectly clear. That incantation—once dismissed as meaningless scribbles or mocked as the ravings of a madman—was in truth a product of agonizing labor, its creator undoubtedly pouring heart and soul into every character. Having listened this far, I felt as though scales had fallen from my eyes. Reciting the lines internally, I asked: "What does 'The rebel flames still blaze; deeply store all within the house' mean?"

“That line likely refers to the construction of this tower,” Hideko replied matter-of-factly. “The records vary widely with conflicting theories—I can’t state this definitively—but my most reliable conclusion is that this tower was built during Cromwell’s revolution. Though separated by two hundred sixty to seventy years from the earlier civil war when the treasure was stolen, ‘The rebel flames still blaze’ probably refers to Cromwell’s faction’s vigorous momentum. As you know, Cromwell’s reforms occurred in the 1640s—about two hundred fifty years ago—making this tower roughly three hundred fifty years old now. People claim it’s millennia-old, but that’s untrue. Had they discovered then that the treasure had been retrieved from underwater, Cromwell would have undoubtedly confiscated it. So they built this tower to secretly safeguard it and crafted the incantation to implicitly inform their descendants. Doesn’t ‘deeply store all within the house’ clearly mean hiding it deep beneath the tower?”

Chapter 113: The Desert of Life Having heard this explanation, there remained no room left to doubt the incantation's meaning—though readers may recall it, I shall now transcribe its entirety here. A hundred measures of bright pearls; The king bestows auspicious fortune; Wicked monks steal away; Nightwater dragons lament; Seek beneath lake depths; Return heirlooms to chests; Rebel flames still blaze; Deeply store within chambers; Bells toll as foliage sways; Faint glimmers flicker; Rising and falling; Stairways wind, corridors twist; Mysteries reside; Silently unroll the diagrams; It became clear that the ancestor of this house had hidden the vast treasure bestowed by the king within this tower and devised this means to inform descendants of its location—hence why successive family heads had been required to memorize the incantation upon inheritance. The treasure lay concealed in this very chamber at the tower's depths where Hideko and I now stood.

Hideko concluded her explanation. “Deciphering this incantation and opening the path to retrieve the treasure was part of my secret mission. Though I’ve only fulfilled a portion of it, I consider this a stroke of luck, and offer it as a token of my gratitude to Father and you.”

Having said this, she rose without hesitation. It was clear she now intended to leave this place—no, this house—entirely. I shouted again: “Did you not hear me earlier when I said all the false accusations against you have been dispelled? It has become abundantly clear that both the old slanders and new suspicions are utterly baseless!” Though my heart surged with joy at the prospect of truth, my face betrayed nothing—yet somewhere, a flicker of movement seemed to stir. Hideko asked, “Who will prove my innocence?” “As for that—Gonda Tokisuke.” Hideko merely looked perplexed and said, “Huh?”

Though it may be my vanity speaking, had I answered, “I will prove it,” Hideko would surely have rejoiced; yet when told it was Gonda Tokisuke who would do so, her visible disappointment was unmistakable. And when she retorted, “But in exchange for proving it, Mr. Gonda will surely attach some condition—tell me to do this or that as recompense,” she was undeniably correct. His sole aim was to make her his wife in return for saving her—yet he never explicitly stated she must become his wife to be saved, nor did he attempt to force marriage upon her as repayment. Rather, he had resolved with infinite patience and gentleness that by saving her and then extending every possible kindness thereafter, Hideko would naturally grow grateful and come to love him. Truly, there could be no greater affection for Hideko than this—utterly unconditional. Yes, toward Hideko it was entirely unconditional; the conditions existed solely for me. “Never steal her affection from the sidelines. Ensure she grows to utterly despise you”—this alone was the condition imposed upon me. If I merely upheld this, Hideko would need make no promises, bound by no obligations. Circulating these thoughts, I emphasized the phrase “toward you” as I uttered: “No—Gonda has no conditions for you.”

Upon hearing it was unconditional, Hideko finally seemed relieved. “Ah… unconditional? That does seem somewhat suspicious—but you’re saying I need make no promises whatsoever? Is that truly what you mean?” Her skepticism was entirely reasonable. “Absolutely,” I affirmed. Hideko paused, then with some difficulty and a quiet calm, asked me: “But you… but you—” Ah—this brief phrase held infinite meaning. Having discerned that Gonda sought no conditions, Hideko now perceived me as one who had fully promised compensation. Since I had indeed pledged such recompense, she likely assumed I would be the one to propose terms—hence her asking, “But you—”. If one were to expand this phrase into ordinary terms, it amounted to: “If Mr. Gonda imposes no conditions like making me his wife, will you not propose such terms yourself?” To ask whether I desired to take her as my wife was one and the same. Of course, her question was entirely reasonable—after all, until yesterday, we had been formally engaged. Waves of joy surged through my entire being, yet alas, I could offer no reply. Even a flicker of happiness on my face would violate my vow to Gonda—would ruin Hideko’s life. *“Show her the demeanor of one utterly disgusted,”* Gonda had demanded. *“How could anyone take such a woman—stained by sin and utterly contemptible—as a wife?”* Though I could never enact such cruelty, what response could I possibly give? The words of response lodged thickly in my throat. I neither affirmed nor denied—merely turned my face aside, eyes rolling helplessly.

At such moments, none discern shifts in another’s heart more swiftly than a woman, nor feel displeasure more deeply. Hideko instantly perceived the change in me. Of course, she had deliberately offered words of forgiveness for my seemingly faithless conduct since yesterday—yet when I did not leap joyfully to her side but instead turned my face away, her anger was inevitable. To not resent this would make her less than Hideko—a woman beneath her dignity; yet to openly display that resentment would equally make her less than Hideko—a woman beneath her dignity. She spoke no more, merely quietly lifting the hand candle. I, no longer met with any warmth, said flatly, “Well, I shall escort you.” Hideko’s reply was icy: “No—I will walk alone.” This single phrase struck me as a lifelong writ of disownment. I too gave a flavorless reply—“Is that so?”—but in that moment, I truly grasped how agonizing it was to lose Hideko’s love. Though I had lamented countless times since submitting to Gonda’s terms that I must lose her, this was the first instance I had actually lost her affection. My heart became a cosmos stripped of its sun—utter darkness, devoid of sweetness or dew. The life awaiting me now was mere dregs; I had become human dregs while still breathing. Having traversed fertile plains where cool winds blew, clear waters flowed, verdant grasses sprouted, and crimson flowers bloomed in splendor, I now entered a desolate desert. I yearned to die outright. Without another word, I moved to leave the chamber before Hideko could. In a tone reserved for strangers, she asked: “But Mr. Marube—you know there is treasure at this tower’s base. Will you depart without ascertaining where it lies, how it is stored, or what form it takes?” I replied: “No need to ascertain it. Having lain hidden here for hundreds of years, let it remain so. If fate wills it, another soul shall retrieve it.” Let the wilderness and mountains do as they will—what need have I, who’ve cast aside the human world, for treasure? My very soul had become a spectacle of self-derangement.

Chapter 114: Number One House Treasure Even were it a treasure more precious than the royal throne, it held no necessity for me—who had become mere human dregs. I intended to depart without laying a hand upon the treasure at the tower’s depths, leaving it abandoned as it lay. Hideko, observing this, declared with near-commanding intensity: “No—we cannot leave them unopened! Since I was the one who discovered them, I implore you—open them and see what treasures lie within! Once that is done, you may leave if you wish.” I lacked the resolve to protest further. “Then I shall examine them. Where is this treasure located?” “These coffin-like boxes lined up here—all are containers of treasure,” she replied. “Open their lids and you’ll understand.” While saying this, Hideko slightly raised the hand candle and swept her gaze across the chamber.

I had previously noted how coffin-like caskets covered with cloth were lined up at the center of this chamber, though I had not closely examined them. Yet if these were truly treasure chests, they would contain an utterly vast treasure—so immense that no matter which country one might go to, it would be impossible for a single person to behold such a quantity of treasure all at once. Treasure of this magnitude could not possibly exist elsewhere. Hideko was counting the boxes while holding up the hand candle; I too had counted them, and there turned out to be seventeen in total. Though these seventeen varied somewhat in size, even the smallest appeared as large as a full-sized coffin. I said: "How should we open this? There must be a lock." "The lock can likely be opened with the key still clutched by this house's ancestor. Retrieve it," said Hideko, glancing toward the stone steps where the ancestor's corpse lay. Though taking a key from a dead man's grip repelled me, Hideko's words rang with unprecedented finality—like a general's command to a soldier. Whether my frayed nerves distorted her tone or her resolve itself hardened her voice, I could not disobey. Approaching the corpse whose face I had earlier shrouded with a handkerchief, I took the key with trembling fingers. Returning to the boxes, Hideko—perhaps intending to encourage me—declared: "There is nothing to reproach yourself for in opening this box. To leave it unopened would be the true failure. Now, begin by opening this one."

She pointed to the largest box in one corner. Under the light of Hideko’s raised hand candle, I removed the cloth covering and located the keyhole. Though opening it posed some difficulty—too trivial to warrant detailed description—I soon managed to lift the lid. The box itself was plain, unadorned white wood. Upon opening it, an indescribably rich fragrance rose densely—likely from aromatic spices packed alongside the treasure, a considerate precaution taken by our ancestor to spare future descendants any unpleasantness when opening this box. The first thing to catch my eye was crimson woolen cloth identical to that upholstering the chamber’s benches. Though the bench fabric had entirely faded, the cloth inside the box still glowed vermilion as if newly dyed. Removing this revealed a wooden panel beneath—an inner lid. Affixed to it was Western leather paper labeled *Master Catalog*. Reading it, I found chests numbered one to seventeen, each entry bearing descriptors like “gold/silver,” “jewels,” or “tribute from territories.” One noted spoils from a victory over an unnamed nation in a specific year and month; another listed “artworks.” Yet gold and silver dominated—half of the seventeen bore those labels.

When I saw that the master catalog of the seventeen chests was contained within, it was undoubtedly the first one I had opened. I read the catalog and muttered under my breath, "Number One contains family heirlooms." By "heirlooms," I assumed these must be items irreplaceable by mere currency—treasures to be passed down through generations of the Marube family. Even as I dismissed "treasure" moments earlier, my pulse quickened against my will. At last opening the inner lid, I found smaller nested boxes beneath. From the uppermost one emerged an ancient crown, clearly crafted from gold.

The crown appeared to have been stored after being fractured, shattering into four pieces upon removal—yet it remained unmistakably a family heirloom. This confirmed that the family’s ancestors indeed descended from royalty. Countless jewels glittered around the crown’s circumference, its centerpiece a ruby so vivid one might mistake it for burning flame—roughly an inch in diameter, its quality alone representing immeasurable wealth. Further extraction revealed bags and nested boxes: one bag contained spices, explaining the rich fragrance now permeating the air. Alongside the crown lay a queen’s diadem, equally adorned with priceless gems. Necklaces emerged next, then bracelets—followed by rings, golden clasps, garment ornaments, and stationery-like items, all crafted of gold or silver and inlaid with noble jewels now irreplaceable in the modern age. The sheer volume suggested this alone might constitute the entirety of the House of Lancaster’s plundered treasures.

Chapter 115: Persisting Carelessness The numerous treasures within the boxes could not all be recorded here; their value could scarcely be tallied even in monetary terms. If a single box contained this much, how vast would the treasure have been had all seventeen been opened? Fortunately—no, *unfortunately*—I was now in a position where I cared not for treasure or anything else; thus, I needed only marvel at its abundance. Had I remained the man I was before today—one still clinging to worldly desires—I would surely have fainted. If it were mine, joy would overwhelm me; if another’s, envy might drive me mad.

Contrary to my earlier belief that even opening the boxes was futile, I now found myself wanting to peer into the other chests as well—not out of greed for treasure, but rather to indulge my eyes, so to speak. To behold such wealth was a luxury even royalty might rarely experience. Perhaps sensing my change of heart, Hideko pointed to two adjacent chests labeled in the catalog as “No. 2: Gold/Silver” and “No. 3: Jewels,” saying, “For thoroughness’ sake, open these as well.”

Gold and silver, jewels—what manner of gold and silver could this be? What kind of jewels? Even in my desireless state, a shiver ran through me. I opened Number Two first. Its outer lid and inner panel were identical to the previous chest’s, differing only in contents. Inside lay nine vertical compartments, each labeled with eras like “Such-and-Such Period Gold Coins,” overflowing with ancient currency. Six compartments held gold coins; the remaining three, silver. Overwhelmed, I feared touching them would defile their sanctity. Muttering “Ah… I see,” I closed the lid. My mind remained unsettled, yet an inexplicable dread of lingering drove me to immediately open “Number Three.” This one had no compartments—only countless bags piled within.

Assuming the bag contained jewels, I tried lifting the topmost manageable one—only to find the sack had decayed, its fibers brittle under the weight within. As it tore apart, I cried "Agh!" and recoiled, shielding my eyes. Who could stand their ground? From the ruptured bag spilled countless glittering objects with a sharp clatter—so blinding that in the dim chamber, reflecting Hideko's hand-candle glow, they seemed all heaven's stars fallen here. They blazed with a haloed brilliance, their identity undeniable: luminous pearls. Among them were massive ones said to light twelve carriages.

Hideko stood silent, seemingly as astonished as I was. Knowing it was futile to gather the spilled jewels back into their bag, I closed the lid as it was. "Come now, Miss Hideko—let us leave this place at once," I said. Yet she remained remarkably composed. "Not yet," she replied after a pause. "It seems there was some document in the first chest we opened. Read that—then we shall depart." Following her words, I faced the first chest again and examined the catalog I had seen earlier. Three chests were labeled "jewels," seven "gold and silver," and the remaining seven held miscellaneous items. If even a single bag from one chest contained such wealth, how vast must the entirety be? To call it "more precious than royalty" was only natural—its value rivaled that of all Britain itself. With treasures of this magnitude, erecting this tower to preserve them thus had been unavoidable. Those who heard legends of this tower had mocked our ancestors as madmen for their excessive caution, yet having secured such riches while remaining merely "mad" marked them as men of sound mind indeed! Even their so-called caution seemed reckless compared to what these treasures warranted—especially considering their era: Cromwell’s rebellion, when kings were slain, nobles reviled, and luxuries seized without mercy. Had I been in their place, I too would have taken precautions equal—nay, surpassing—theirs! Though truthfully, devising greater safeguards than these would have left even me at a loss.

I remained lost in thought while holding the catalog when Hideko spoke from behind: "That isn't the relevant document. Can't you see the separate parchment beneath the spice bag? Read what's written there." Regaining my senses, I looked beneath the spice bag and indeed found a parchment roll resembling a will. Unfurling it, I read: "I, Asahide of the Marube family's fourteenth generation, hereby attest in good faith: All treasures of gold, silver, jewels, and pearls stored within this tower rightfully and incontestably belong to the House of Marube through legitimate claim."

The particulars of this matter are separately recorded in this house’s annals. I, inheriting the resolve of generations past, through years of arduous labor, succeeded in retrieving these treasures from watery depths under night’s concealment. “These treasures lay submerged for approximately two hundred and fifty years. All precious paintings, silks, and other items recorded in our ancestors’ catalogs were regrettably destroyed by water, leaving no trace. Only those resistant to decay over time—gold, silver, jewels, and the like—remained intact. I have thus placed them into seventeen chests and concealed them at the base of this tower.”

"If my descendants succeed in retrieving this, my blessing shall be bestowed upon them alongside the treasure." "Should any not of my bloodline dare remove this treasure, I, Marube Asahide's vengeful spirit, shall not cease to bring calamity upon them." "May generation after generation partake of limitless eternal happiness through this." Though brief in wording, this text alone sufficed to confirm that the treasure rightfully belonged to the Marube family.

Chapter 116: Neither Voice Nor Words—They Do Not Emerge Having finished reading this document, Hideko and I quickly came to an agreement: it would be most proper to take both the writing and the key still clutched by our ancestor’s remains to deliver to my uncle. Entrusted to him, matters would resolve themselves—whether extracting the treasure or conducting reburial rites for the corpse. Given the sheer immensity of the hoard, lingering here any longer felt unnervingly ominous. I carefully resealed the first chest’s lid and followed Hideko—who led ahead with the hand candle—as we departed. Upon nearing the tower’s exit, Hideko turned to me and said: “That this treasure never passed into others’ hands until now must owe entirely to our ancestors’ spirits guarding it. Countless souls over generations must have heard the legends and schemed to claim it. Okon was one such person—she bought this tower intending to seize its riches but lacked even the literacy to decipher the incantations. She consulted her son Takanawatari Nagazo, but he dismissed the legends outright. That explains his resolve to sell the tower. Had he shared Okon’s greed, this place would never have returned to Marube blood.” “While our ancestors’ divine guardianship surely played its part,” I replied, “this was ultimately your achievement. Without your wisdom, these treasures would have lain buried beneath the earth for eternity.”

As we spoke, we arrived without losing our way at the stone wall outside the clock mechanism room. To think that even the tower’s original builder had died trapped here, unable to escape—was our safe passage thus far also due to ancestral protection? Yet if I were to choose, I would have wished for no such guardianship. Had we been unable to exit, I could have died here with Hideko. In death’s moment, I might have confessed how my pact with Gonda Tokisuke compelled me to demean her, apologized fully, and perhaps softened her heart. Such was the cruelty of this unyielding world. But another obstacle remained—the stone door barrier. Convinced ancestral spirits alone could not move it, Hideko explained: “The green panel cannot be shifted separately—it’s weighed down by this door. But if we move the door itself, the panel will open naturally.” She then examined the wall. “According to the blueprints, there should be a hole here to remove the partition blocking the door’s protrusion. From inside, we could only wait for eleven o’clock—but from here, we can open it anytime. This alone shows Ancestor Asahide’s meticulous planning.” After searching the wall for a moment, [she] exclaimed, “Ah, here it is! There we go,” and opened the stone door.

Though it had opened with surprising ease—leaving me somewhat dumbfounded—we could no longer avoid entering the mechanism room. Inside, just as expected, the green panel stood open. Hideko first made me crawl through the gap by the panel, then appeared to manipulate the clockwork mechanism herself before soon squeezing through after me. The moment we emerged, both the stone door and the green panel attached to it snapped shut. Hideko and I now stood in the so-called clock chamber—a spacious area directly above my quarters—when our gazes inadvertently met. Whether through my own vanity or not, I detected in her eyes not relief at our safe escape, but something closer to regret.

Descending to the veranda outside my quarters, I heard—ominously—a scratching sound against the door from within. I recalled that first night I slept in this room, when a mysterious hand (later revealed as Torai Fujin's) had emerged between the panels. Then came the memory of last night's bloodcurdling scream from this very chamber—a sound that had frayed my nerves. Unease gripped me: had something abnormal occurred inside? Yet this was no sight for Hideko's eyes. Resolving to investigate alone later, I said, "Ah, dawn has nearly broken. Miss Hideko—you must be exhausted. At any rate, you need rest. Shall I escort you to your room?" Hideko smiled forlornly. "Indeed. Come to think of it, I haven't eaten since yesterday morning."

Fatigue had turned her face deathly pale. "Come—let me escort you," I said. Though we had become complete strangers, I worried whether she would even consent to being escorted by me. But Hideko neither accepted nor refused—she simply tilted her head toward my chamber and uttered, “Oh—in this room—” I said, “There’s nothing wrong at all.” “Open this door. Open it!” Hideko declared resolutely. Though perplexed, I could not refuse. As the noise grew increasingly louder, I reluctantly opened the door—but Hideko entered before I could, still clutching the hand candle. The moment she stepped inside, she froze in shock, rooted to the spot. I followed behind, but upon witnessing the ghastly scene before us, I too came to an abrupt halt. For a moment, we could produce neither voice nor words.

Chapter 117: Heaven's Judgment If I had entered this room before Hideko, I would never have let her step inside—never shown her this sight. I would have fabricated some pretext to make her leave from beyond the threshold. But alas, Hideko entered before I could, witnessed this scene, and now there was nothing more to be done.

Even so, I still sought to make Hideko leave. Placing a hand on her shoulder, I attempted to pull her back, saying, “Come now, Miss Hideko—let us go over there.” At that moment, something darted past my feet like a loosed arrow and leapt onto the veranda. It was Madam Torai’s lemur—undoubtedly the same creature that had been scratching at this room’s door from within. Hideko stood rigid as a stone pillar, utterly unmoving—pushing her shoulder proved futile. Her eyes—wide with terror—fixed vacantly into space, as if peering at some distant horror beyond immediate sight. Ah! She seemed as shocked as one witnessing the chamber’s contents firsthand, her mind now fixated on matters far removed—a waking dreamer unresponsive to all around her.

The scene that had so shocked Hideko was this: In my usual armchair, leaning back with his head tilted, sat a man whose face bore an indescribable look of agony, dead with eyes wide open. Bloodstains dotted his body, particularly around his cheeks marred by what appeared to be bite or claw marks—undoubtedly the lemur's doing. Closer inspection revealed his fingertips too had been viciously gnawed. But who was this man? At first I could not discern his identity, but as I stared, it became clear: Takanawatari Nagazo. Though death alters one's visage, I had not imagined it could distort so profoundly. The wounds and pain had twisted his features into grotesque contortions, rendering him utterly unrecognizable from his living self. In life, his face had been handsome and smooth, though with an unsettling undercurrent—yet never so villainous as this death mask. Perhaps he had so meticulously crafted his benign facade that this true, monstrous countenance emerged only in death. Regardless, it was a horrifying sight. In the dimly lit room that had not yet fully brightened, illuminated by candlelight, the sight felt all the more terrifying.

Ah—why had he entered my parlor? Why had he died? A mere lemur could not kill a man singlehandedly—this defied reason. Yet one thing became clear: the source of last night’s scream was his death cry. Thus, he must have perished shortly after the clock struck midnight. As I continued pondering the cause of death in this manner, Hideko suddenly leapt up and cried out, “I’ve realized! I’ve realized!” Though I knew not what she meant, her agitation was palpable—her usual composure utterly shattered, to the point I feared she might have gone mad. I asked, “What have you realized, Miss Hideko?”

Whether Hideko heard my question or not, she continued speaking as if in a trance: “I’ve realized—it was Takanawatari Nagazo who murdered my foster mother Okon in this room eight years ago. I alone heard that scream and rushed here but collided with someone in the darkness. Though I knew it was the culprit, they shoved me aside and fled. As I tried to pursue them—a woman chasing a criminal—Okon’s dying voice cried ‘Villain!’ from the shadows. She grabbed my hand and bit my left forearm. Whether from agony or the pitch blackness, she couldn’t distinguish friend from foe. The pain and terror made me faint—I don’t know whether I fled or chased them next. Like a sleepwalker, I stumbled down to the moat’s edge and collapsed. By morning, I awoke in police custody as Okon’s murderer. Though I knew another criminal existed, I couldn’t name them. I protested, but the bite marks on my arm and flesh in Okon’s mouth became evidence. Circumstantial coincidences and flawed deductions branded me a ‘born poisonous woman’ skilled at weaving lies. They reduced my death sentence to life imprisonment for being underage—ordered to be grateful for this ‘mercy.’” “Even after pleading all the way to Her Majesty the Queen, I was not forgiven—until finally, a single innocent, pure girl came to be denounced across the nation as the unprecedented poisonous woman Wata Natsuko.”

Her voice, pouring out millennia-old resentment, seemed to pierce the realm of the living and resonate profoundly with the netherworld—a sound so unearthly I could not remain unmoved. Unwittingly, my entire being merged with Hideko’s voice, becoming one with the aggrieved, sharing their bitter anguish. Still maintaining the same cadence, Hideko continued: “After escaping prison, one of my secret missions was to expose the true criminal and subject him to Heaven’s Judgment to clear my name. Now that criminal has been found. Heaven’s Judgment descended exactly as he deserved—he is this Takanawatari Nagazo. Though I long suspected it might be him, only by witnessing this divine retribution could I confirm it beyond doubt. How Heaven’s Judgment befell him can be understood by seeing this sight.” Truly, had Hideko—through her fervor—perceived even what lay beyond mortal sight? Even as she cried out thus, her eyes remained cast beyond humanity, adrift in the cosmos.

Chapter 118: And the Third Secret Mission... It was only natural that one of Hideko’s “secret missions” had been to uncover the true criminal behind Okon’s murder and cleanse her tarnished name. Identifying the tower’s treasure constituted her first mission; apprehending the criminal, her second. But what of the third? She had indeed spoken as if there were three missions. With the first two now effectively accomplished, would this third—still shrouded in mystery—likewise come to fruition? Even in my exhaustion, I found myself unable to suppress such speculations.

Hideko, still as if in a trance, continued speaking. “How do you suppose this divine punishment befell him? To my eyes, it is as clear as if I witnessed it before me. Years ago, he murdered his foster mother Okon precisely when this tower’s clock struck midnight. I awoke to the clock’s chime and heard her scream from this very room as I turned in bed—that is why I rushed here. Ever since, whenever he heard that midnight toll, fear would flash across his face. When Madam Konsai first brought him to a banquet here, you must recall how he halted mid-greeting to count the clock’s strikes on his fingers. He looked relieved when it stopped at eleven—learning it was still an hour before midnight calmed his nerves. Had he not been Okon’s killer, why would midnight’s chime terrify him so? Later, he frequented this house and swiftly grew close to Madam Torai—fellow villains quickly recognize their own kind. Knowing I sought the tower’s secrets, she and her brother Anakawa Jinzou threatened me, demanding a share of its treasure. When intimidation failed, she stole the blueprints and sent them to him—as you know from your talk with Gonda Tokisuke last night. But after you thwarted Anakawa’s schemes, Madam Torai resolved to recruit Nagazo instead. Though he had once dismissed tales of treasure beneath the tower, her words convinced him—I observed them whispering often these past days. He became as greedy as her, waiting for nightfall when everyone had settled into sleep to solve the tower’s secrets himself. Unaware you had returned, he sneaked into this room last night—and thus invited Heaven’s Judgment.”

Her words, reasoned through logic and emotion, unfolded with such meticulous order and coherence that there was no room for dispute—a testament to her fervor unknowingly driving her to this point. I listened entranced, unable to interject a single word. Hideko continued: “He came to this room to search your documents and decipher the incantation’s meaning, shutting the door himself—but somehow Madam Torai’s lemur slipped inside and became trapped with him. Unaware of this, he sat pondering until the clock above struck twelve, just as it had when he murdered Okon years ago. The sound must have frayed his nerves. Then, from some corner of the room, the lemur made strange noises—you can see how terrified he was by the extinguished candle stub here. He tried to rise with the hand candle but dropped it. Perhaps Okon’s dying face flashed before his disordered mind. In his panic, he likely mistook the lemur for a monster and tried to seize it—and in its desperation, the creature scratched his cheek and bit his hand, as these marks prove.”

Thus, after the clock struck twelve last night, when I heard that strange scream twice, it must indeed have been a mix of the lemur’s cries and his own shrieks—Miss Hideko’s deduction left no room for doubt. “Mr. Marube—even an ordinary person would feel terror entering pitch darkness, let alone him stepping into this very room where he murdered his foster mother. With his hand candle extinguished, the clock’s echoes lingering, and an unseen lemur running amok, he must have desperately tried to escape by feeling for the door. But the room’s layout differed from what he remembered, and in the dark, he could hardly manage to open it. Moreover, in some countries, lemurs are called ‘thunder beasts’—they’re said to grow frenzied during storms, acutely sensitive to electricity. It must have rampaged wildly—lunging at him from front and back. Since childhood, he had an abnormal heart—lately warned by doctors that extreme physical or mental strain would cause cardiac rupture. The chaos surely brought about this end. In this very room where his deeds left my hand bitten raw, at the same midnight hour, he met his end—tormented and bitten by a lemur. Is this not Heaven’s Judgment? I wished to expose the true criminal through confession and clear my name—yet learning all this only after his death is regrettable. But since my own hands could never have delivered such punishment, I can only deeply thank Heaven for enacting this part of my secret mission.” She raised her hands skyward in prayer once more, leaving me utterly awestruck.

Chapter 119: A Parting from This World

It was exactly as Hideko had said—Takanawatari Nagazo had indeed received Heaven’s Judgment. I turned to her and said, “Your devotion has reached Heaven, Miss Hideko, but there’s no need to remain here any longer. I shall handle the corpse’s disposition. You must retire to your room and rest—you’ve endured more than anyone should bear. Moreover, should it become known that we infiltrated the tower’s depths and uncovered its secrets, it would prove most inconvenient.” Hideko—her earlier vigor spent—appeared utterly drained as she replied, “Yes… Let us rest awhile. Otherwise… I can no longer order my thoughts.” Indeed, this was only natural—having gone twenty-four hours without sustenance while enduring emotional upheavals beyond mortal measure, even the hardiest of women would find this unbearable.

I too was exhausted, yet a great discontent filled my heart. Just as Hideko’s wishes were nearing fulfillment and her circumstances about to turn fortunate, I had contrived to make her despise me myself, and now faced the prospect of losing her—leaving no room for ease of mind. Though I sought rest, it would not come, and I had no choice but to ponder alone, earnestly, how to conduct myself henceforth. Thinking thus, I escorted Hideko down the tower and arrived at the second floor of this house. Though her room remained distant, it too lay connected along this corridor. Hideko declined further escort with a polite refusal and departed alone. Had she not grown cold toward me before, she would hardly have minded my accompanying her even to her chamber’s threshold. Ah—for a fleeting moment, shocked by Takanawatari Nagazo’s unexpected manner of death, she had forgotten all else and spoken to me with nearly her former openness. But once that shock faded and her heart regained its usual composure, her disdain for me returned at once; she now seemed to find even conversing disagreeable. Truly, I had suffered greatly for my pact with Gonda Tokisuke.

Vainly watching until Hideko’s figure disappeared from sight, I went down to the staircase while pondering how I must inform someone of Takanawatari Nagazo’s death. By now, dawn had brightened outside the windows—sunrise hour—yet no one below seemed awake. Hesitating briefly, thinking it futile to descend further, I lingered by the upper landing’s edge. Then came footsteps ascending from below—not a servant’s tread. This person, too, appeared deep in thought like myself; their progress was unsteady—climbing a step only to pause, then climb again. Waiting silently to discern who it might be, I saw a head and torso gradually rise into view: Gonda Tokisuke.

He wandered in complete absorption, lost in thought. Startled, I instinctively rushed over and called out abruptly, “Mr. Gonda!” With a jolt of surprise, he cried “Oh!”—but as he lifted his face, he lost his balance on the stairs and nearly tumbled backward headfirst. Had I not caught him, he would have certainly fallen. I swiftly grabbed his arm, whereupon Gonda—as if regaining his senses—turned to survey the stairway’s height behind him. “Oh! Had you not caught me, I’d have cracked my skull and bid farewell to this world,” he said with uncharacteristic gratitude before adding bitterly: “Ah—you could have effortlessly eliminated a romantic rival by letting me fall. Isn’t that so? No one would blame you—I’d have died through my own clumsiness. Even I couldn’t resent you for it. Were our positions reversed, I’d never have reached out to save you.”

“Speaking seriously,” he said with growing sincerity, “I feel increasingly indebted to your kindness.” I replied, “Ah—so it was you who did this.” “A regrettable act of mercy,” he countered, “but had I perished now, there would be none left possessing sufficient counterevidence to clear Hideko’s tarnished name.” “That concern,” Gonda interjected, “has now been rendered moot.” “What?” I exclaimed. “I’ve already transferred all counterevidence to the proper authorities.” “Who are these ‘proper authorities’?” “Detective Mori Mondo and your uncle, Mr. Asao.” To recount Gonda’s explanation: After I had departed his residence two nights prior, he had dragged Mori Mondo—still bound tightly—from the adjoining room. There, he meticulously detailed Hideko’s circumstances (or rather, Wata Natsuko’s), explaining how Takanawatari Nagazo had in truth murdered Okon years earlier. When Gonda presented every shred of evidence, Mori Mondo—confronted with irrefutable proof—fully grasped his own error and declared: “You did well to capture and restrain me thus, preventing me from discharging my duties. Had you not taken such drastic measures, I would have committed an unprecedented professional blunder—becoming a laughingstock among my peers and utterly destroying my reputation as a detective.” Mori Mondo had offered a profound apology. After Gonda untied him, Mori urgently set to work—laboring tirelessly from that night through the following day to verify the authenticity of every piece of counterevidence. He even uncovered how Takanawatari Nagazo, still scheming to entrap Hideko, had bribed an assistant at a London anatomical institute to procure a woman’s corpse. Around noon yesterday, after dutifully reporting these findings to Gonda, the lawyer immediately accompanied him here. That very night, Gonda met with my uncle and relayed every fact previously disclosed to Mori Mondo. Moreover, with the incisive rhetoric of a lawyer skilled in distilling essentials, he elaborated on matters yet unknown to me.

Chapter 120: Deliberation and Wisdom Exhausted

Gonda Tokisuke continued speaking. “Mori Mondo, who came with me, first went to Takanawatari Nagazo’s room to ensure he wouldn’t escape—but true to his villainous nature, Nagazo seemed to have anticipated danger and had already fled. Just then, one of Mori’s subordinates from the local police arrived and reported that Miss O-Ura, who had previously vanished, was hiding at Chigusa-ya in this area. Convinced Nagazo would head there, Mori immediately rushed to that house—but Nagazo wasn’t there either, and even Miss O-Ura was nowhere to be seen. He returned deeply disappointed. Later, we heard from a doctor that Nagazo’s chronic heart condition had flared up these past few days—he stated even a minor shock could kill him instantly. Given that… he might have died while fleeing.” I was drawn into the conversation and said, “Yes—Nagazo had already died last night due to heart disease.” Since there was no need to hide this from Gonda, I explained the circumstances in detail. Gonda nodded in astonishment and remarked, “Then that strange scream I faintly heard last night—as I dozed in a chair by your uncle Asao’s bedside after recounting Miss Hideko’s circumstances—must have been Nagazo’s death cry.”

“So Uncle now knows all about Hideko, I take it?” Gonda replied: “Your uncle had been deeply distressed after Takanawatari Nagazo’s venomous accusations revealed Hideko’s true identity as Wata Natsuko. I therefore disclosed Wata Natsuko’s complete innocence to him. His joy knew no bounds—he declared his illness cured and insisted I remain at his bedside. I ultimately spent the night there in near-sleepless vigilance. But Mr. Marube—crucially, I myself remain unaware of Hideko’s current condition after these events. Where is she now?” “She withdrew to her room in utter exhaustion—likely asleep by this hour.” “And your promise?” With faint irritation, I answered, “I fulfilled it strictly. Hideko now thoroughly despises me—a contemptible wretch incapable of pitying a woman plunged into misfortune.”

Contrary to expectations of triumph, Gonda instead looked shamefaced. Scratching his head dejectedly, he said, “It was truly a cruel pact—I feel deeply remorseful,” his tone reverting to that of two nights prior. Though still harboring unresolved bitterness, I retorted with a hint of sarcasm: “You must be thoroughly satisfied now.” Gonda replied, “No—forgive my bluntness—I’d misjudged you. To sacrifice yourself so completely in keeping your word… Ah, such noble integrity is rare indeed these days.” After a pensive pause, he added, “But your uncle keeps asking after you—‘Where has he gone?’ Let’s save other matters for later and go to his chamber first.”

I complied and went to my uncle’s room with him. Though still visibly aged and infirm, Uncle appeared somewhat recovered as he sat up in bed. “Ah, Michikurou! First—I must ask you to find Hideko and apologize on my behalf. I deeply regret having doubted her. Last night, Mr. Gonda here told me how tirelessly he’s worked for her sake—and how utterly blameless she remains. Unaware of this, I’ve been tormented for days since learning she’s that Wata Natsuko. It’s inexcusable—especially since I was the first to demand Natsuko’s execution years ago. If she wasn’t guilty, my error is grave indeed. No descendant of mine should ever serve as a judge again! And that vile Takanawatari Nagazo—he knew Okon withdrew all her assets from the bank annually for inspection. He sneaked back from London to murder her and steal them! He pinned suspicion on Wata Natsuko while hiding the money himself, gradually siphoning it off over years. Mr. Gonda has traced every withdrawal date and location where he stashed it—irrefutable evidence to execute Nagazo and clear Hideko’s name. But Michikurou—here lies another difficulty: prosecuting Nagazo would force Hideko back into public scrutiny. We’ve long pretended Wata Natsuko died in prison, even maintaining her grave on these grounds. Revealing the empty tomb now and exposing Hideko’s true identity would be cruel—yet unavoidable once Nagazo stands trial. For this too, I need your wisdom—my own mind is utterly spent.” He seemed utterly overwhelmed with regret and bewilderment. I said, “No, Uncle—there’s no need for such concerns. Takanawatari Nagazo has already faced Heaven’s Judgment. And Hideko has witnessed that judgment and found satisfaction.” Uncle was so shocked that even the bed shook. “Wh-wh-what?!”

Chapter 121: Rather Siblings

Uncle’s shock showed no sign of subsiding. “Takanawatari Nagazo faced a proper trial? That’s impossible!” “No, Uncle—it wasn’t an earthly trial but Heaven’s Judgment. Last night, he died suddenly from heart rupture.” Though I had meant to keep this news from him longer, I now explained every detail to ease his worries. Uncle stroked his chest in relief. “True divine justice! This spares Hideko further scrutiny. Should anyone ever doubt her identity as Natsuko, we need only prove Natsuko’s innocence and expose Takanawatari’s crimes—evidence Mr. Gonda has already gathered. With that wretch dead, he can’t slander her from the grave. None will question her now.” He sighed deeply before slumping again. “Still, I owe Hideko a profound apology—I must make amends until her heart softens.” His agitation persisted. I offered comfort: “The fault lies with us both, Uncle. Hasn’t Hideko deceived you too, in her way?” He rebuffed me sharply: “Never! When I confronted her after Nagazo’s accusations, she admitted plainly, ‘Yes, I am Wata Natsuko.’ Not one false word passed her lips. Any deception stemmed from our own misapprehensions—she merely failed to correct them. From our first meeting, her conduct has been unwavering truth.” Indeed, he was right. While Hideko had allowed our misconceptions to stand, the error lay in our blindness, not her guile. Her integrity had remained constant throughout.

While I was lost in these thoughts, my uncle pressed me urgently: “Michikurou—go fetch Hideko at once! Bring her here so we may apologize together through your words. Since you will soon become her husband, she will surely soften her heart if she hears this from you—her future partner. Come now—go call her immediately!” If it were said that I was already established as Hideko’s husband, how would Gonda Tokisuke take it? I could not keep silent about this matter to Tokisuke either. “No, Uncle. Hideko and I will not be getting married.” Uncle: “Eh?” “We canceled that arrangement due to certain circumstances. We’ve firmly decided to become complete strangers—or rather, siblings. If you wish to summon Hideko here, please ask Mr. Gonda instead.”

With this stated, it didn’t take long for Uncle to grasp that Gonda would now become Hideko’s husband. Even if he hadn’t, I lacked the courage to explain further. “Besides, I have urgent matters I cannot neglect,” I said, leaving the room before Uncle could counter. All matters concerning Hideko would now have to be entrusted to Gonda. I left that place and returned immediately to my study. Now that I had utterly surrendered Hideko to Gonda, all joy in this world vanished—there remained scarcely any will to live. Yet I could not simply kill myself either. For the time being, I resolved to leave this country and travel abroad until my wounded heart mended. A portion of the fortune inherited from my father still remained; surely within that sum lay means to establish myself anew. As I brooded gloomily alone, overcome by exhaustion from the previous night’s ordeal, I fell asleep with my arm propped on the desk.

After some time, I awoke to footsteps and found Mori Mondo standing beside me. He apologized to me as he had to Gonda, even thanking me for having him bound so thoroughly that night—an act he now called fortunate—before adding, "Your uncle insists on seeing you." Though resolved not to return to my uncle's room, I found myself asking, "Are Gonda and Hideko with Uncle?" The prospect of facing Hideko again before him pained me most. Since I meant to leave the country regardless, I resolved to depart without seeing her—yet if she were absent, I felt compelled to bid Uncle farewell from afar. After washing my face, I returned to his sickroom. Five hours had passed since I last left; though I thought I'd dozed barely thirty minutes at my desk, I must have slept four. Entering Uncle's room, I found Hideko present—contrary to my expectations—standing with Gonda at the bedside. My mind raced: Had she resolved to become Gonda's wife and come to explain matters? Regretting my decision, I turned to leave—but Uncle sharply called, "Here! Michikurou!"

Chapter 122: Still Deeper Within Having been called back, I could not truly flee. Reluctantly entering my uncle's room, he said: "Michikurou—you've come at an opportune moment. Now that Hideko has risen too, I intend to offer a full apology as discussed earlier. You must add your words as well." Truly, my uncle's words to Hideko overflowed with parental affection and the sincere remorse of one making profound amends. When Uncle spoke thus and grasped Hideko's hand, she declared, "This is too gracious—for you to apologize to me! Countless apologies should rather come from my own lips," gently disengaging his grip to kneel before the sickbed. Hideko's bearing now stood utterly transformed from when she had proclaimed Takanawatari Nagazo's divine punishment—though this change owed partly to rested composure, it transcended mere physical recovery. Serene as a heavenly maiden fulfilling celestial mandate, her countenance shone with unearthly beauty that differed completely from ordinary days—radiant yet guarded by an imperious dignity that defied approach. Clearly, she had resolved to disclose matters of grave import.

Hideko’s words began with her addressing him as “Father”—her voice now spilling forth a deeper emotion than when she had addressed him thus in their daily exchanges. “Father, it was I who infiltrated this household under false pretenses. Yes—I deceived everyone entirely. I waited in my heart for the moment to apologize, praying it would come swiftly. Now that it is known I am Wata Natsuko—and understood too that I committed no terrible crime like murder—I have become, so to speak, a person of blameless purity who need feel shame before none. Thus I believe this is the time for my apology. Yes—long have I vowed in my heart: if my innocence were recognized, well and good; if not, I would battle this world to make it known even unto death. Yes—I resolved never to disclose my true lineage, status, or name until my final breath.”

“Though my true lineage and name are Wata Natsuko, you may now suspect there lies yet another identity deeper within me.” As these thoughts lingered among the listeners, Hideko’s voice—soft yet growing ever clearer, no longer human but akin to celestial music—continued: “For this reason, I have never worn the beautiful garments befitting a young woman. Instead, I clad myself in what the world calls ‘shadow-gray’—ink-black robes—to show my resolve never to emerge from obscurity. All of this had profound reasons, and for those reasons, I inevitably deceived you all and concealed my origins. Please listen carefully. Over twenty years ago, there was an unfortunate woman. A trivial misunderstanding arose between her and her husband. Convinced he no longer loved her, she fled his household in tears, cradling their infant daughter, and crossed over to America.”

Though these matters seemed entirely unrelated at first glance, when I realized this was Wata Natsuko’s true origin story, I listened with such rapt attention that I nearly leaned forward without realizing it. After all, this Hideko—this Wata Natsuko—must have had some upbringing even before becoming Okon’s foster daughter. It seemed she intended to begin her account from that very upbringing. Gonda Tokisuke listened just as intently as I did, while my uncle appeared to have transformed his entire body into ears alone. Hideko continued: “After arriving in America, while the woman remained unsettled and spent her days at an inn, a great fire broke out in that area. The inn burned down, and many travelers perished in the flames. Though the woman and her daughter were counted among those who died in the fire, they were in fact fortunate to survive—rescued by a certain person while still injured.”

“The one who saved them was my foster mother Wata Okon. Though Okon came from humble origins, she inherited a relative’s estate and became extraordinarily wealthy. She purchased this tower, then used the remaining funds to travel through various countries for about a year before reaching America. When the fire I mentioned occurred, she happened to be in that very area and immediately took in that woman and her daughter from among the injured. People often say Okon wasn’t one to rescue others out of kindness—she had originally served in that woman’s household and received her patronage long ago. Some claim she likely acted out of gratitude for past favors. Another theory suggests it wasn’t gratitude at all—she apparently knew about treasures buried beneath Ghost Tower and wanted to raise someone of the tower’s rightful bloodline herself to avoid legal disputes when retrieving them. But as her foster daughter, I cannot judge my foster mother so harshly—I truly don’t believe that last part.”

Uncle could no longer remain silent—or rather, genuine emotions welling from his heart’s depths seemed to burst through his tightly sealed lips. Like a volcanic eruption, he cried: “Then that woman belonged to the main branch of the Marube family?” “Yes,” Hideko replied. “And that woman—” “My mother deeply regretted resenting my lord and waited for a chance to apologize. Yet five empty years passed in this Ghost Tower under Okon’s care until her death. There likely were opportunities—but Okon always stopped her, insisting, ‘His anger remains too fierce; now isn’t the time.’ She urged patience year after year. When dying, Mother earnestly told her six-year-old daughter: ‘After I’m gone, find your father and apologize for me. Until he accepts this apology, even my spirit cannot rest.’ She said: ‘Your father is unyielding—unless you become someone worthy who might naturally meet him through society, he’ll never see you. Grow obediently into a respectable woman.’ With those words, she passed.” “Then how—is that daughter still alive? Where? Where?” “That daughter never became respectable. At seventeen, she faced horrific accusations—branded a foster mother killer—sentenced to life imprisonment. Yet she thought: *If I die jailed like this, I can’t fulfill Mother’s wish.* So she escaped... and now stands before you, offering Mother’s apology.” Uncle slid from the bed—“Oh! You were my daughter all along?”—and lifting her up, let hot tears fall like true rain silently down Hideko’s back.

Chapter 123: Grand Conclusion Not only my uncle but I too wept at Haruko's story—Gonda Tokisuke wept as well. Gonda, a man possessed of peculiar chivalry who valued neither life nor fortune when moved by sentiment, had already cast aside his professional duties for Haruko's sake. Though this stemmed from love, only one naturally endowed with such ardor could have achieved this. Thus his emotions in this moment appeared twice as intense—stifled sobs leaked from behind the handkerchief pressed to his face.

Indeed, could anyone consider Hideko's circumstances until now and refrain from weeping? While striving solely to meet her father and fulfill her mother's dying wish, she had been arrested for a crime she did not commit—her pleas unheard—until she became a prisoner. Even after risking her life to escape that cell, she endured hardships beyond what most endure in a lifetime. When I thought of this, my love for her swelled a hundredfold—yet alas, she now belonged to another. I had to disguise this deepest affection as disdain.

At last, Hideko had endured her hardships—now that her innocence was proven, she had reached the point of conveying her mother’s dying wish to her father. Even setting aside the sorrow, tears flowed for the sake of joy alone. Now, all the various matters that had been unclear until this point made sense. The third secret mission was indeed to declare herself as his daughter and convey her mother’s words. Moreover, when Uncle first met Hideko and remarked that she resembled his departed wife, it was only natural that he came to regard her almost as his own child and went to great lengths to adopt her in the end.

After waiting for her father’s tears to subside and her own heart to settle somewhat, Haruko began speaking again: “Of course, Mother refused when Okon proposed adopting me. But Okon argued persuasively—if we continued hiding here under our real names, you might grow furious upon discovering us. Until the day we could properly return, she insisted I must become her child—concealed from all recognition. In the end, she changed my surname to Wata and my given name from Haruko to Natsuko. I am neither Matsutani Hideko nor Wata Natsuko—I am Marube Haruko, the name I was born with.” Uncle appeared nostalgic even for the name Haruko itself. “Oh, Haruko! Haruko! This was the name I chose after consulting with my wife.” Without losing coherence even at these words, Hideko continued: “Okon likely thought that by making me her foster daughter, even if the extinct Marube main family’s inheritance resurfaced, no legal disputes would arise. I realized such motives only later. Afterward, when imprisoned, I was glad to have used the Wata surname. Had I borne the name Marube Haruko under such suspicion, I would have defiled—for the first time in history—the unsullied name of the Marube clan, leaving me answerless to both our ancestors and you, Father. Yet from that moment in prison, I vowed firmly: *I must return to this world without fail. Once free, I will prove my innocence and fulfill Mother’s dying wish.*”

“Who could have imagined a woman harboring such intricate reasons? After finally escaping prison, I despaired time and again, uncertain whether I could ever prove my innocence. I even thought it better to remain as Wata Natsuko—to end things bearing that stigma—if my efforts would never succeed. Until I could expose the true criminal and declare unequivocally to all that Wata Natsuko had been wrongfully condemned, I resolved never to reveal my true identity. Even if I met you, Father, I could not fulfill Mother’s final wish. I would have lived and died under a false name. For this reason—to deceive both you and the world—I entered this household under pretense. I beg your forgiveness for this deceit, layered atop Mother’s own transgressions.”

Uncle repeated “Oh! You were my daughter all along?” countless times, embracing Hideko—no, Haruko—as one would a child. Haruko, too, pressed her face against her father’s chest like an affectionate child and wept inconsolably. Soon regaining his composure, Uncle turned to me and began: “Now that this child is confirmed as Marube Haruko, she is undeniably this household’s heir. Listen well, Michikurou—as my adopted successor, you are naturally bound to wed her. How could you abruptly treat one betrothed to you as a stranger? There must be reasons, but—” Before he could finish, Gonda Tokisuke—who had been listening—suddenly stood as if casting off his very body. This was the moment a villain might renounce wickedness for virtue—yet he was no villain, merely a man of intense emotion and latent chivalry now moved to his core by the scene before him. In a voice steeled with resolve, he declared: “Yes! *I* am the reason they were separated! To prove Miss Hideko—no, Miss Haruko’s innocence, I forced Mr. Michikurou into a pact: he must make her despise him. But now I see they cannot be torn apart! Considering how painfully he endured and how faithfully he kept that vow, I too must endure equal pain! Come, Mr. Michikurou—she has no rightful husband but you! The pact is void!” He clasped Haruko’s hand and mine together. Overwhelmed with joy, I scarcely noticed when Gonda departed.

There was no need to speak of what followed; the tale of Ghost Tower had ended here. Henceforth, I resolved merely to record the aftermath. Madame Torai left without declaring her return, abandoning the lemur at our house to lull others into complacency before vanishing forever. Detective Mori Mondo's investigations revealed she had fled to her brother Anakawa Jinzou's residence before absconding to Australia with Jinzou and his associate, Medical Scholar Ōba Rensai. The spider farm stood utterly deserted now, inhabited only by countless spiders spinning their silken traps. The lemur found sanctuary at Sensōya. O-Ura Urahara crossed to America, joining a troupe of actresses who toured western villages—her natural talent for kyōgen comedy making her what they call a true leading lady. Tokisuke embarked on foreign travels immediately and still remains abroad. As for Haruko and myself... well, let us simply say a jewel-like boy graces our household now. I shall say no more—lest readers grow envious.

As for the treasures beneath that tower—though by bloodline they belonged neither to me nor to Uncle, they were wholly Haruko’s. The reason lay in this: Uncle Asao descended from a branch of the Marube main family separated generations ago, making his bloodline distant. The closest lineage had been Uncle’s late wife, and after her death, Haruko—born from her womb—became the rightful heir. Even disregarding bloodline, Wata Okon, Ghost Tower’s former owner, had named her foster daughter Wata Natsuko (in truth, Haruko) as inheritor in her will. Thus, by this measure too, the entire tower rightfully belonged to Natsuko. Only because Natsuko had been believed to have died in prison did it naturally fall to Takanawatari Nagazo—yet had she lived, even Nagazo’s claim would have been deemed illegitimate. Therefore, Haruko built a vault within the tower grounds, first extracting and storing seventeen boxes from the tower. The primary family heirlooms were to be passed to descendants, while gold and silver were donated to all British charitable causes, churches across Europe and colonies in the Orient and South Seas, and continue to fund global charities to this day. Yet it was true that Uncle’s lands—and thus mine—expanded greatly because of this. In every village across these territories, elementary schools were built entirely at Haruko’s expense—some large institutions costing five hundred pounds monthly—though even this scarcely exhausted the funds. Most jewels and pearls remained in bank vaults, accruing compound interest. Haruko declared that if Britain ever staked its fate on war for justice’s sake, these assets would never be withdrawn as taxed revenue—in other words, they were reserved for military funding. What could be more auspicious than this?