Moonlight streamed through the glass window, coating the crystalline grains of salt in a silvery sheen.
Ye Yan was trying to make a batch of Salt Trace.
He had not rushed to contact Detective Lestrade. Instead, he was preparing in advance to solve the case.
As Holmes had said, the key to the case lay in finding the evidence someone had deliberately hidden. The Salt Trace formula he had just acquired could undoubtedly prove invaluable.
"Now's the perfect chance to introduce Salt Trace to Scotland Yard." Ye Yan murmured to himself, picking up a glass rod and a beaker. "I'm sure the detectives will be very interested in a tool that can track mysterious traces."
Beneath the moonlight, he poured pure water that had been kept away from light for seven days into a crucible, then added freshly ground sea salt.
As the flames flickered, the liquid began to bubble. Ye Yan murmured an ancient incantation.
Steam billowed upward, and a layer of white crystals gradually formed at the bottom of the beaker, interspersed with a few black particles.
They were no impurities. They were Salt Trace taking shape.
Ye Yan leaned forward to examine them closely.
Some of the black particles were mixed with genuine impurities, while others gave off a faint, inconspicuous glow and seemed to resonate mysteriously with his Compass.
It was Salt Trace.
Carefully, Ye Yan separated them with silver tweezers. Once he had finished, he had a whole small bottle of Salt Trace, glimmering with a mysterious sheen.
"Separating it took even more effort than making it."
He wiped the sweat from his forehead. "Looks like I'll have to put mass production on hold. Apart from the incantation, I didn't expect identifying Salt Trace to require so much more energy."
The moon outside remained bright as Ye Yan estimated how much of his mental energy he had used.
"I can make two more batches at most tonight." He rubbed his temples. "Otherwise, I'll have a headache all day tomorrow."
The next day.
Four small glass bottles stood neatly arranged on the workbench, filled with Salt Trace he had made through the night.
A satisfied smile appeared on Ye Yan's weary face.
He had thought three bottles would be his limit, but as he gained experience, his efficiency exceeded his expectations. In the end, he even had enough energy left to make a fourth bottle.
Carrying all four bottles of Salt Trace, Ye Yan returned home.
As he passed the mailbox on his way inside, he opened it without thinking and found a letter resting quietly inside.
Ye Yan took out the letter and looked at the name on the envelope.
"Is this a letter from Joseph?"
He had mailed a letter to France half a month ago, but had yet to receive a reply.
Like Sherlock Holmes Casebook, Maupassant's My Uncle Jules was also narrated from the perspective of one of the characters in the story.
That character was Joseph Dalmans.
Holding the letter, Ye Yan went inside.
They were blood relatives, after all. If they ever met, Joseph would have to call him older brother.
He wondered what Joseph had written.
A little over ten minutes later, Ye Yan finished reading the entire letter with the help of a French dictionary.
His brows furrowed slightly.
The letter had probably been written by Joseph Dalmans himself. The childish handwriting clearly belonged to a child.
But someone had most likely coached him on what to write. The letter was full of probing questions and flattery, and in the end, it even urged Ye Yan to send more money.
"Looks like Joseph Dalmans isn't doing very well."
Ye Yan had anticipated as much, which was why he had included some money with his letter.
Philip's attempt to trick the original owner into killing himself had not been exposed, but his smuggling of contraband had been confirmed, so the government had confiscated his entire estate.
Just think of what had happened to the original owner after his parents died.
Unless Joseph Dalmans found someone kind enough to take him in, he would probably fare even worse than the original owner had.
After some thought, Ye Yan decided to send another letter.
Paris, France.
Joseph Dalmans no longer felt sad about being homeless. He was gradually getting used to being passed from one relative to another like a burden.
He had very little luggage.
An old suitcase containing a few shirts and pairs of trousers, his schoolbooks, a diary, and a little wooden horse.
It was a gift from his mother for his tenth birthday.
Whenever he was sent to live with a new relative, Joseph would clutch the little horse tightly. It was the only way he could feel as though he still had something of his own.
"Joseph, you'll be staying here for now."
His aunt's cold voice echoed through the cramped storage room. She impatiently tapped the doorframe with her finger. "Remember, you'll have to help with the chores. We're not a charity."
He nodded and silently picked up a broom.
His two older sisters were already married. Whenever he saw them at family gatherings, they would half-cover their faces with their fans and lower their voices—just enough for him to hear.
"He's so scrawny and filthy, like a little rat," the elder sister sneered. "I don't understand why we have to take turns keeping him."
"Well, he is our little brother," the second sister said, idly fiddling with her gloves. "Besides, in a few years, we can send him off to be an apprentice."
When his sisters talked about him, it was as if he were an old piece of furniture in the way, not their own brother.
And school was even worse.
The rich children wore fine wool coats, and their parents came to pick them up every day. He had nothing but an old jacket with sleeves too short to cover his wrists, and he walked to and from school alone.
His old friends were no longer in Paris.
His new classmates called him "little beggar," and sometimes "country bumpkin." They stuffed dead rats into his schoolbag or tripped him when he wasn't looking.
The teachers saw it, but only frowned.
A poor child with no parents, transferred from a small town, was not worth their attention.
Joseph learned to keep his head down as he walked and to grit his teeth without crying when he was beaten.
At night, he curled up on the mattress in the little room, listening to mice rustle in the corner. He counted the cracks in the ceiling, hoping that one day he would grow up quickly.
He missed the days he had spent in Le Havre.
The winters in Le Havre had been cold, but the hostile stares had been even more frightening than the icy wind. In Paris, there was never enough to eat, and he had no "home" of his own.
Joseph was afraid.
He worried that before he even grew up, his family would treat him like Uncle Jules—a burden they could toss onto a ship bound for America, never to return home.
He had been anxious ever since, until the afternoon that changed his fate.
His aunt opened a letter from London, and a stack of banknotes slipped out.
[Dear Joseph, my little brother,
Please allow me to address you so warmly, because we are indeed brothers by blood.
My name is Ye Yan, though you may also call me Newman Easton. I have been living overseas, but recently came to England because of matters concerning our aunt's family. That was how I learned about you...]
The letter briefly explained the sender's identity and the reason he was writing.
His aunt was beside herself with excitement.
Pinching the stack of banknotes, she moistened her thumb with the tip of her tongue and counted them carefully, one by one. As for the letter, she crumpled it up and tossed it into the trash.
Only after everyone had left did Joseph secretly retrieve the crumpled letter.
By the light of the kerosene lamp, he read it over and over.
The letter said that his "older brother" had returned from overseas. Joseph had no idea how far away overseas was, but it had to be a long way from France.
The letter was full of grammatical mistakes, as though its writer had clumsily pieced it together with the help of a dictionary. The wording was awkward and stilted.
And yet, it made Joseph very happy.
He knew that this had to be a letter written by his older brother, whom he had never met. At the thought, a long-forgotten happiness began to spread through Joseph's heart.
Clinging to a hopeful fantasy, he had a beautiful dream.
In his dream, he was back in Le Havre. Golden sunlight fell on the soft sand as his sisters lifted their skirts and chased the waves, while his parents sat nearby, smiling at him.
A gentle sea breeze brushed his cheek, carrying a familiar, salty scent.
Amid the hazy light, he glimpsed a blurred figure smiling at him, its smile so warm that he wanted to draw closer.
But happy dreams never lasted.
The next day, his aunt forced him to write a reply according to the adults' wishes. "Joseph, my dear Joseph, come sit here and write a letter to your brother."
His aunt kissed Joseph on the cheek with the same affection she might have shown her own son, but he felt uncomfortable all over.
When he heard what she wanted him to write, that discomfort suddenly intensified.
It became so intense that he almost threw up.
"I don't want to write it."
For the first time, Joseph stood up to his aunt.
What he really wanted was to write a sincere letter to the older brother who cared about him. He wanted to tell him how happy and grateful he was, and how much he hoped they would meet.
Not to make demands, all carefully calculated.
"Joseph, don't forget who provides your food and shelter. I'm only doing this for your own good!"
"But this is wrong."
"What's wrong with it?"
"He's my brother. I shouldn't be writing to him just to ask for money. That isn't what matters."
"No, what you think doesn't matter is what matters most, Joseph. You're still young; you don't understand these things. Be good and do as we adults tell you."
Joseph still shook his head.
He never did anything he believed was wrong.
But in the end, he gave in—not because he was afraid of going hungry, but because he was afraid of losing his little wooden horse.
The letter was sent.
After that, Joseph checked the mailbox every day on his way to and from school, looking for a letter from London.
He both hoped for a reply and dreaded receiving one.
Joseph was afraid that the letter would contain words of disappointment, but he was even more afraid of being abandoned again.
Half a month passed.
No more letters from London appeared in the mailbox.
His aunt gradually returned to her usual ways, no longer adding an extra fried egg to his breakfast.
Every night, Joseph read the letter again.
At last, he understood why his parents had once placed such high hopes on a letter that was already ten years old.
But he was not his parents.
Joseph secretly vowed that when he grew up, he would go to London and hand the letter he truly wanted to write to the person willing to call him "little brother."
He took out his suitcase and pulled out his diary.
The first page was about Uncle Jules. He had written it when he first began to doubt what his parents had done and was filled with confusion.
This time, he planned to write the letter he had wanted to send to his older brother, Ye Yan.
[Dear Ye Yan, my older brother,
I hope I haven't addressed you incorrectly. When you introduced yourself in your letter, the first name you used was Ye Yan. I'm guessing that you'd prefer people to call you "Ye Yan" rather than Newman Easton...]
Beneath the lamplight, the boy's pen glided across the paper, every letter filled with his most sincere feelings.
As he wrote his signature at the end of the letter, Joseph smiled happily. He curled up on his little bed, hugging his diary as he drifted off to sleep.
That night, he had another beautiful dream.
And then, his dream came true!
The morning sunlight had only just climbed up the window when a sharp knock at the door woke Joseph.
"Joseph, wake up! Your brother sent someone to see you!" his aunt shouted. "Hurry up and get yourself cleaned up!"
Joseph forgot to put on his shoes as he excitedly opened the door.
A well-dressed gentleman sat on the sofa, chatting amiably with his aunt.
"Sir, did my brother really ask you to come and visit me?" Joseph's eyes were wide, and his voice trembled slightly with excitement.
As soon as he had said it, he hurried to explain. "No, I don't doubt who you are. I'm just so happy."
The visitor took off his top hat and gave him a warm smile. "I assure you, young sir. Your brother, Mr. Ye Yan, asked me to see how you're doing."
Hearing the visitor pronounce the name correctly, Joseph believed him completely.
In fact, it had taken him an entire afternoon of practice to say "Ye Yan" so clearly.
Suddenly, Joseph seemed to remember something important, and his eyes lit up. "Please wait a moment!"
He turned and ran to the storage room, his bare feet pattering urgently across the floor.
In the cramped storage room, Joseph carefully opened the old leather suitcase that had always been with him and took out the diary where he had recorded his thoughts and hopes.
When the boy reappeared in the doorway, his expression had become unusually solemn.
"Sir." Joseph took a deep breath and solemnly held out the diary to the visitor, his voice full of hope. "Please take this to my brother. I wrote down everything I want to say to him in here."
The visitor inclined his head slightly.
"Don't worry, young sir." He gently smoothed the worn corners of the diary with his fingers. "I'll make sure it reaches your brother safe and sound."
Joseph was about to thank him, but suddenly realized he still hadn't asked the man's name.
"I'm sorry. That was rude of me."
Realizing how thoughtless he had been, he blushed and awkwardly straightened his too-short sleeves. "Kind sir, may I... may I ask your name?"
The visitor slipped the diary into his inner pocket and put on his finely crafted top hat again, hiding his slicked-back hair. "James Smith."
He introduced himself. "A friend of your brother's."
Before you continue