It was some four hours before I stumbled in through my own front door. I was still streaked in mortar dust and exhausted from long conversations with the fire brigade and the local "beat" constable. I stood aside from the other riders on the sub-surface railway, trying to ignore their curious glances and trying to draw as little attention as possible. I had not even bothered to stop by the Department in person. Instead, I stopped at a particular branch of the local  library, satisfying myself that it was sufficient to request a copy of the score for the national anthem at the circulation desk and then leave a hastily-penned report in the 27th Volume of the Encyclopaedia Universalis between pages 1030 and 1031 ("Verne" and "Vernet"). The librarian had looked my destroyed clothing up and down disapprovingly when I entered, but as soon as I turned away from the stacks and towards the door, she was already on her way to collect my notes.

I arrived home to find Blaise holding in his arms a large bouquet of flowers and a small envelope.

"What's that?" I asked, wearily.

Blaise ignored my question, deciding, instead, to ask one of his own, "What happened to you?"

"Work happened," I said. Blaise looked like he would ask me another question, but I waved him off, saying, "I am fine. I just need a bath and a good night's sleep. Now, what is that?"

"It was in your postal box," Blaise said.

The armful of flowers was enormous. The box is not. I raised an eyebrow.

Blaise rolled his eyes. "Technically, there was a note in your box saying there was a package at the postal desk for you. This was the package."

The bouquet consisted of a great profusion of asters and rather out-of-season violets, as well as cream-coloured roses. It was as though the two dresses I had worn the day before – the violet day dress and the cream-coloured dinner dress – had been mixed together and recreated in floral form. I pushed my dusty hair out of my eyes, then wiped my hands on a cleaner portion of my skirt. I leaned in to smell the flowers.

Blaise cleared his throat, and held out the small envelope. It read "To Miss P. Auber". I held it in my hands for a moment, admiring the soft, strong material, before I carefully pushed my thumb into the flap and gently tore open the envelope. Inside was a small piece of card and a sheet of paper, folded over twice.

The document, when unfolded, proved to be a personal note, written on ivory paper topped with the now-familiar rose-and-sword motif and the address of the Ruritanian Embassy. Some tutor or school-master had spent many long hours teaching Theo von Hentzau a fine hand. The bold capitals flowed smoothly into the smaller characters, each formed in a delicate, continental style. It seemed a pity to waste that signature on mere clerical work, rather than true matters of state. 

The note read:

MY DEAR MISS AUBER,

Having had the pleasure of dining with you yesterday evening, I venture to write to ask your kind permission to escort you to the theatre tomorrow. Please do me the honour of accompanying me. Meet me at 5 o'clock tomorrow evening at the address on the ticket. I trust that you will pardon this liberty; I assure you that all my future happiness depends upon your affirmative response.

I remain most faithfully yours,

THEO v. HENTZAU

The note was not entirely in the best of taste – the use of the first person pronoun in the closing was far too intimate for our degree of acquaintance – but the tone and sentiment were appealing. I felt a small, warm smile form on my lips.

I next flipped over the accompanying card. As expected, it was a ticket to see the Wednesday evening show at the Aosta. Unexpectedly, however, the ticket was for a seat in a private box – the most expensive seats in the theatre. I was more sure than ever that my boss was right about Hentzau's parentage.