A gust of cool air greeted Desmond as he went through the doors of the boarding house and ventured out into the night. The dark streets were illuminated by the burning light of the lamp posts, casting sharp shadows across Desmonds face as he made his way uptown. A carriage drove past, splashing water as it passed through a puddle, it's wealthily clad inhabitants peering warily at Desmond as the carriage turned a corner and disappeared into the night. Most windows were dark, save for the rare few here and there, melding into the stars of the night sky in the horizon.

He was looking for one ms Agatha Blakes, a journalist in employ of the Caledon Times. Their offices were located in the north east, if he remembered correctly, in the same neighborhood as several other of Caledons journals and newspaper establishments. It was only a short treck to get there, but as he arrived, he found the building vacated. Not one to be easily disheartened, however, he took his search onwards. There were a few pubs and restaurants that journalists were known to frequent, and he decided to try his luck with one of them.

Desmond soon found himself inside the Bugle, a drinking establishment of good repute, well furnished and not too expensive. The salon was full of potential informants as to Blakes whereabouts, and Desmond wasted no time in asking around. It was not too long before he found a colleague of ms Blakes, mr Goodman, who, after having been persuaded with a pint and some charming conversation, divulged her adress. Desmond thanked him for his kindness and was soon on his way once more.

He found the townhouse only a few blocks away. It was a good house, made of stone, well looked after and with beautiful windows. Ms Blakes was not the owner; apparently she let a room from an old widow, mrs Twain, who mr Goodman had informed Desmond was a prudent but rather unjovial sort. The house was dark, save for a lit window on the upper floor. Was that perhaps ms Blakes room? Desmond could only guess, but he found it likely. He could try the front door, potentially risking to disturb the old widow in her sleep, or try some other more... discreet method of contacting ms Blakes. Both strategies held merits and risks. The night wore on as he contemplated his approach.