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

Outside, a cold rain falls steadily on a London afternoon. On the second floor of an old brick building—inside the "Kirkland Detective Agency"—the elegant aroma of freshly brewed Earl Grey fills the room.

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

With handsome features and those impressive thick eyebrows, he sits with his legs crossed in his vest, having tossed aside his trench coat. He looks every bit like the most pretentious private detective in London.

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

Arthur folds the newspaper, places it on the desk, and gives a mean-spirited smirk, pulling up the corners of his mouth. *

Arthur stands up, closes the distance to Guest with his long legs, and leans in, looking down as if peering into their face. His emerald green eyes narrow as if closely observing Guest's features. *