“Another 27,853 pesols…”

Sir James, the keeper of the Ubberst treasury, counted the coins stacked on top of each other as he jotted down the numbers in his books. But a strange expression appeared on his face. He put down his pen, then began to count the number of coins on the table again, still 27,853 pesols no more and no less. Hamilton in the budget room noticed this unusual look and asked:

"What's wrong?"

"Looks like we have a problem with the budget," replied Sir James.

"What's the matter?" Hamilton asked.

“Didn't match the budget,” he explained, pointing to his notepad. “You see, adding this 27,853 coins, we are still 165,721 coins away from the estimate.”

Hamilton's face turned gray all of a sudden. His expression was somewhat unnatural.

“But didn’t we still have the difference?”

“Yes, but the number doesn't fluctuate that much."

It is not possible to realise such a long distance from the estimate. The only time Ubberst's budget has been below budget has been a year ago, when a 61,563 pesols shortfall caused by a sizable storm left residents in South Ubberst struggling. But even so, the deficit amount is still less than this year, in the condition that everything is normal and there are no problems. Funding plays an important role in the formation and development of a country, this is hard to let go of easily!

"Hamilton, would you look at the tax records for requisition, see if there's anything worth mentioning?"

“Lady Beatrice said it was fine…” Hamilton hesitated.

“It was Lady Beatrice that I was worried. She is easy to please with those people. I'm sure there's something hidden in the tax bill, you just have to see."

When Hamilton heard that, he just silently followed. He took out the tax notebook that was carefully kept in the drawer. Hamilton handed Sir James the book, and stood there to look at it with him. Sir James carefully turned the pages, traced the lines of black and white banknotes, then looked at Hamilton with a serious expression on his face.

"What have you done, Hamilton?"

Hamilton was dead in front of Sir James's question. He couldn't answer for a moment. The sides of his forehead were sweaty, soaking both his shirt and a few pages of a book. If Sir James could read him, he could not help but continue questioning:

“Hamilton, do you know this is tax money?”

“I…” Hamilton stammered.

“Tell me, Hal…” Sir James growled. "What did he do in the end?"

Hamilton's pupils dilated, and his lips moved incessantly. His fingers twitched. How should he answer?