Cache是一个5ml的红色磁性Tube，放在街道旁的的一个pipe里。不在楼房里。
因为文中所介绍的地点为文物保护单位和民宅，所以不能进入，只能远观。请不要破坏文物也不要私自进入民宅。
The cache is a 5ml red magnetic tube, located in a pipe by the street. It's not inside any building.
As this area is a protected cultural heritage site and private residences, entry is prohibited. Please observe from a distance, do not damage cultural relics, and do not enter private homes without permission.
中国的第一所证券交易所--《前门西河沿196号，中原证券交易所旧址》
前门西河沿街196号的中原证券交易所旧址，像一枚被时间包浆的铜币，静静嵌在嘈杂的前门商圈里。1918年6月1日，当北京城的黄包车铃声还盖不过报童的吆喝，这里敲响了中国人自办交易所的第一锣。此前，上海虽有“茶会”做场外交易，天津也有外人把持的“华北交易所”，而北京这座千年帝都把“买卖股票”视为离经叛道，直到梁启超、周学熙等人在“实业救国”声浪中奔走，才在旧都的龙脉上撕开一道资本的口子。选址极讲究：西邻银钱业公会的四合院深巷，东距交通银行和盐业银行不过百步，北倚正阳门箭楼，南望琉璃厂书肆，既守住了票号钱庄的地气，又接通了现代金融的天线。两层青石砖木小楼，立面以青砖为骨，白石灰勾缝，正中券形门洞上嵌拱心石，两侧壁柱托着希腊式檐口，女儿墙后探出万字纹铁栏围廊，像一位身着长衫却戴着怀表的民国绅士。进门穿过短短拱廊，原是一方天井式交易大厅，穹顶采光玻璃早被岁月熏黑，只剩钢梁骨架纵横，依稀能想见当年经纪人红马甲穿梭、铜铃声此起彼伏的盛况；沿窄木楼梯上二楼，大户室门楣仍残存“甲字”“乙字”铭牌，橡木护壁板被几代住户的锅碗瓢盆磨得发亮。1921年“信交风潮”袭来，百余只交易所、信托公司雪崩，中原所却凭北洋政府公债的巨量承销挺过第一波清算；1928年国府南迁，北平金融业失血，它又改做粮油、煤炭等现货撮合，直到1939年日伪强令停业。抗战胜利后，这里短暂复业，旋即被通货膨胀拖垮，1948年最终摘牌。1949年后，小楼先后成为人民银行宿舍、无线电元件厂仓库，80年代起沦为杂院，三十多户居民在交易大厅里砌墙隔屋，穹顶下晾衣绳纵横，却也将百年金融基因的烟火气延续下来。如今，前门大街附近的玻璃幕墙在百米外折射霓虹，而它依旧灰头土脸，像个不肯卸妆的老伶人；木格窗棂里飘出炒菜的蒜香，与檐下“文物保护”的金属牌形成微妙对话。专家考证，它不仅是北京现存最早、最完整的证券交易建筑，更是中国近代金融制度本土化的第一个实体标本，其价值不在宏阔，而在真实：它没有外滩的洋行阔气，却保存了中国人第一次把“股”写成“股”并大声喊价时的忐忑与豪情。每年总有金融史学者带着学生来敲门，住户老大爷搬出板凳，指着墙角说：“当年这儿堆过成箱的公债票，比砖头还重。”一句话，便让尘封的K线重新跳动。
The former Zhongyuan Stock Exchange at No. 196 Xihuyan Street, Qianmen, sits like a weathered bronze coin embedded in today’s bustling commercial maze. On 1 June 1918, while rickshaw bells still competed with newsboys’ cries, its inaugural gong sounded the first note of a Chinese-run bourse. Until then, Beijing—capital of a millennia-old empire—regarded share trading as heterodox; only under the banner of “industrial salvation” championed by Liang Qichao and Zhou Xuexi was a fissure opened in the imperial geomantic order. The site was chosen with almost ritual precision: west of the courtyard alleys of the Native Bankers’ Guild, east of the imposing Bank of Communications and Salt Bank, north under the shadow of Zhengyangmen’s arrow tower, south toward the bookstalls of Liulichang—anchored in the qi of old cash houses yet wired to modern finance. The two-storey brick-and-timber structure wears a Republican gentleman’s double identity: grey-brick walls stitched with white lime, a centred arched portal with keystone, Ionic pilasters carrying a classical entablature, and a balustrade of wrought-iron wan-zi motifs peeking above the parapet. Passing through the short vaulted passage, one entered a skylit trading hall whose glass ceiling is now smoked by decades of soot, leaving only steel beams to hint at the red-jacketed brokers and incessant copper bells. Up a narrow oak stair, the VIP rooms still bear faded plaques: “Room A”, “Room B”; their wainscots, burnished by three generations of woks and wardrobes, gleam softly. When the 1921 “credit-exchange storm” toppled over a hundred fledgling bourses and trusts, Zhongyuan survived on the back of huge Northern Government bond issues. After the 1928 southward removal of the Nationalist capital, it reinvented itself as a spot market for grain, coal and oil until forced shutdown by the Japanese puppet regime in 1939. Post-war revival was throttled by hyper-inflation, and the last trading day came in 1948. Since 1949 the building has served as a PBC dormitory, a radio-components warehouse, and finally a crowded courtyard where thirty-plus households partition the old hall with brick and plywood, stringing laundry beneath the vanished dome yet breathing continuous life into its financial DNA. Outside, Beijing Fang’s glass façades and Page One’s neon rebound only metres away, yet the little house keeps its sooty face, an aging actor refusing to remove his make-up. Scholars of financial history still knock yearly; an elderly resident pulls out a stool and points: “Bond certificates were once stacked here like bricks.” In that single sentence, the candlewick of a century-old candle flares again.