My dear fellow, I speak with the reluctance of a gentleman and the mirth of a witness to mischief, yet I cannot but observe that your talents bear the unmistakable perfume of clandestine circuitry: for whenever a door is locked, a password forgotten, or a “secure” contrivance declares itself unassailable, you arrive wearing innocence like a well-pressed cravat - and, moments later, the obstinate device behaves as meekly as a spaniel. One might almost suspect you keep a private acquaintance with the spirits of the telegraph-wire, coaxing secrets from the ether with nothing but a raised eyebrow and an impertinent flourish; and though you protest virtue, the coincidence remains: accounts mysteriously “recover themselves,” screens confess their contents, and confidentiality expires in your vicinity as though overcome by the vapours. I accuse you, sir, not of villainy - but of possessing entirely too much competence for an honest age.