In the summer of 1934, the sky over Hangzhou was still shrouded in a thick layer of clouds and fog, as if the city was always shrouded in a mysterious veil. The water of West Lake is like a bottomless mirror, reflecting the green mountains and the faint white snow in the distance. Although Hangzhou is a prosperous place in the south of the Yangtze River, there are always some unknown secrets in this mist-filled land, silently hidden in the corners of the streets and among the pavilions.
Hu Renhu, as one of the most famous private detectives in Hangzhou, today's mood is not consistent with this ancient city. On a drizzling afternoon, he was sitting in a small teahouse, holding a cup of already cool Longjing in his hand. His eyes sometimes fell on the twining willows outside the window, and sometimes he glanced quietly at the old book on the table. He was wearing a black robe as always, with a hint of deep coldness between his eyebrows. His face was not handsome, but he had a temperament that no one dared to ignore.
Business in the teahouse was not good today, and the proprietress seemed a little uneasy. She walked back and forth, occasionally casting a glance or two at Hu Renhu, as if she had something in her heart that she had not spoken out.
Hu Renhu had already noticed it, but did not speak directly. He was never eager to attract others' attention. He knew that such an atmosphere always indicated that something unusual was about to happen. Sure enough, not long after, there was a rush of footsteps at the door of the teahouse.
