My feet again touched the cobbled streets some twenty minutes later. I let myself almost immediately into a large, stone building, with glass doors and steam-powered tin doormen. I loitered around a wood-panelled lobby until I was alone, then opened a non-descript door behind which was a staircase.

Rocketing down the three flights of stairs, I was breathless by the time I began turning the tumblers of the lock on a door marked "Janitorial Supplies." There was the hiss of steam escaping from fittings. The grey slab of metal retreated slightly, then rolled sideways into the wall, out of sight. I walked through the resulting opening.

The narrow, well-lit corridor is lined by what appeared to be mirrors. In fact, the panes of glass are only lightly silvered, concealing the darkened rooms behind them. I knew that there were any number of armed men in those rooms, watching me as I proceeded deeper into the headquarters of The Department.

There are many doors lining the corridor, but the one I wanted was a sturdy old piece of oak with the number '1' stencilled in bright yellow paint on its worn surface. I reached out, turned the china knob, and let myself into a small, quiet waiting room.

I do not actually know my superior's name. I know that he prefers electric light to gas, and thus his office, and the waiting area, are lit by incandescent bulbs. I know that he has expensive tastes – all his furniture is mahogany, and the rug covering the terrazzo floor in the waiting area was hand-knotted by the official rug-maker to the Sultan of Qumar. Most importantly, I know that he does not speak to his underlings until he is good and ready.

I lowered myself onto one of the petit point sofa cushions. I waited, facing the only other piece of furniture in the room, a low table with a telegraphic key set upon it. After what seemed like an eternity, the telegraphic key began to click. My Morse is not as fast as I should like, but I got the gist of the request. I crossed over to the door that led to the inner sanctum.