The night had completely shrouded Ramsgate, and the gas lamps outside Albion Villa cast the shadows of the iron fence onto the damp cobblestone road. A gentle breeze blew by, causing the shadows to sway gently like seaweed.
Although the night was already deep, the crowd gathered outside the fence was even larger than during the day.
Among them were journalists, artists, and many local residents drawn by curiosity.
Some had old wool coats draped over their shoulders, others carried sketchbooks and short pencils, and some simply stood with arms crossed, occasionally asking those around them what had happened.
Disraeli, Great Dumas, Dickens, and Eld stood shoulder to shoulder at the front of the crowd, their expressions filled with an indescribable gravity.
Although none of the four spoke, it was clear to everyone that Arthur was taking a significant risk by forcing his way into Albion Villa tonight.
