The Secret Code of Monsters

Chapter 407 Ch.406 Rehealing

The three people had the same destination, and when they chatted, they found that they had common topics (for some reason they excluded old Collins by coincidence).

Everyone is good at something different, which can lead to all kinds of discussions.

For example, as Rose mentioned before, she is good at detecting lies.

And Kingsley added to her, saying that this method should actually be compiled by a knowledgeable scholar, and maybe it could be turned into a book - on how to detect lies, Lillian Rose Vansittart walked this road In front of many people.

Of course, even if it was a compliment, some of the words made Rose uncomfortable.

Really bad at communicating, Mr. Kingsley.

Later, he said that he, like Lilian, also has abilities far beyond ordinary people:

He can easily notice some details that ordinary people ignore - not deliberately, but always subconsciously, places that he has not even thought about, and those pictures are playing in his head.

He has an incredibly good memory:

He could remember a certain word in a book he read three years ago, and which page and line it was on.

Rose was amazed.

then.

He asked Roland again what he was good at.

Roland said he was good at heartbreak.

"You are good at glib talk, bad thing." Rose rolled her eyes at him, not wanting Kingsley to look down on Roland, and answered for him: "My friend's hearing is very sensitive - you also saw that he has some slight discomfort in his eyes. So my ears are very good.”

Unexpectedly, these words made Kingsley even more... can I use fanaticism?

He asked Roland about hearing problems in detail, and then said that he had thought about a question. If everyone has different weights, different shoe materials, or even different walking methods due to different genders, then the sounds they make should also be different. Different, right?

Rose didn't understand what he was talking about at all: "...right?"

"Then, like the sound - the footprints, can we also say the same?"

Roland understood.

"You mean to judge a person's weight and gender by the size and depth of their footprints."

"Yes, there is also height." Kingsley waved his arms a few times, not noticing that the white ash from the end of the cigar was thrown all over him: "Height, weight, pace - I have read some information, sir, the taller the person. , the bigger the feet, there are some minorities, but I think, at least that’s the majority, right?”

"I even speculate that if everyone walks differently..."

"Can we identify a murderer through the depth of his footprints?"

"As long as there is a large enough record base."

The more he spoke, the more urgent he became, and his voice became more passionate - but paired with that dead expressionless face...

It's a bit scary.

"It seems that my friend lied to me. He said that tobacco can help stabilize people's emotions." Roland joked and said with a smile: "You should really be a policeman, not a detective."

The fire in Kingsley's heart went away just as quickly as it came.

He slumped his shoulders and returned to his unhurried tone: "Oh, but I don't like those 'hat dogs,' Mr. Collins. To be honest, apart from wasting taxpayers' money, what have they done? Something?"

"I think it's a pretty good statistic, right?"

“You can count them all on one hand.”

At this time, old Collins, who was squinting and dozing, suddenly said: "He's right, little bastard. The police are not as capable as him - those losers who hang gold labels and badges on their hats all day long and hide money and coins inside." , except when he is excited when he goes to a prostitute’s house to collect money, at other times he looks like an eighty-year-old walnut who has just finished his work.”

"Do you have any grudge against an older person?"

Old Collins pouted, ignored Roland, and looked at Kingsley: "You are quite capable. You should go to London to open a detective agency or something... Not to mention how much money you make, you can always get in with your brains." That circle."

"I'm not that interested, sir."

"But you will be interested in the bullshit in that circle," Old Collins smacked his lips twice, pulled the armrest, struggled to get up, and poured himself a glass of red wine: "The higher the level, the more bullshit - you The person with the identity should know best.”

Kingsley looked down at his attire: shirt, vest, trousers, nothing special?

"Don't look at it. It would be weird if you weren't a rich young man." He grabbed the glass and drank the red wine in one gulp like a cow. He wiped his beard and mouth with the back of his hand: "Anyone who works in this business must be... A dirty kid who can’t afford to eat, or a rich young man who has nothing to do.”

"Look at you, you still have time to look at your pocket watch slowly. How can you not afford to eat?"

Kingsley was silent for a moment and nodded: "You are right. I really don't have to worry about food and clothing."

Old Collins squinted at him: "You are not 'having no worries about food and clothing', you are 'very rich'. Don't do this trick. Let me tell you, I have never missed anyone with my eyes."

"Yes," Roland helped: "My uncle not only has a good eye for people, but also has various abilities, such as writing poems, or reciting loudly in the house-"

"Shut your mouth."

Rose laughed endlessly.

Old Collins glanced at the girl who had not pretended for a long time before revealing her true colors, and couldn't help asking Roland angrily: "How did she know that I was reading poetry in the room?"

Rose was out of breath: "...I don't know...First, sir...I just think you and Roland are interesting...I...I don't know..."

"I didn't tell her anything," Roland said frankly, "but she should know it now."

Indeed.

Not only her, but Kingsley also knew it.

…………

……

The four of them had to get off at a station, and then take a carriage to different places.

"See you in Innstown." Kingsley took off his hat, bowed, opened the door and got on the carriage.

The weather in Falk County was the same as usual.

The sunset sank from the dome, and it sank and dyed all the way.

When Roland set foot on this land again, a wonderful feeling came to his heart.

A fragile and cowardly childhood, a painful and hopeful teenager, some vicious or kind people, bumpy waves and a quiet life like a summer afternoon...

Then a letter.

A series of wonderful stories.

A ceremony.

A fire.

A pair of scarred hands.

Like a ring at the end of a title, Roland returned to the starting point again.

But Falk County and he were different.

The factory with black smoke opened the cage door and released the livestock that had been bleeding all day.

They held cigarettes, talked with their arms around each other, swearing and spitting; they held wooden barrels, which contained clothes and "odds and ends" that they thought they had gotten a bargain from the factory - everything was as ordinary as usual.

Yam Jones originally thought so.

Until, at the end of the road home, she saw a "boy" who had been waiting for an unknown period of time.

Golden eyes.

Black hair neatly combed from under the brim of the hat.

That familiar face.

Smiling.

"...Roland?"

The woman shouted in disbelief, threw away the basin in her hand, and ran away like a madman.

In the sunset, the two hugged each other tightly.

Like the flesh on both ends of the wound, it finally healed again.