Desmond smoothed back his hair and fiddled with a crease in his shirt. In one hand, he held a single yellow rose - liberated from the garden of a more well-to-do household. He plastered on a nervous smile, before taking hold of the knocker and giving it three firm raps against the door.

He stood in wait, gently tearing off the thorns and leaves that still clung to the flower. Truthfully, he didn't know much about Old Widow Twain - he was happy with Ms. O'Hara - but hopefully, a woman like Miss Blake had, somewhere, encountered flower language. He wouldn't mind explaining that it was an offering of friendship and new beginnings, but its purpose was mostly to divert the widow - a gentleman caller was, perhaps, more normal than a rookie journalist, and certainly more palatable at this late hour. All Desmond himself needed to do was get his foot - quite literally - in the door.

And then there was his approach. He needed to know as much as possible before heading to the sewer, starting with Miss Blake's source - whether she had been there herself, or if it had been a tip, and from whom. Rumours didn't spring from nowhere, and the more he knew, the better. And if he needed an incentive... well. He had that in mind already. Desmond didn't need the story to be in his name, not just yet. Miss Blake could publish it in hers... an exclusive exposé. All the answers, available in the Caledonian Times. And it would get him access to more.

Speaking of, he could hear footsteps approaching. He held both his hands behind his back, waiting to see who he would need to speak to.