It is a Date

The carriage ride into the central district of Helmarte took precisely twenty-four minutes.

Ernest sat alone in the leather-upholstered interior, watching the city pass through the rain-spotted glass. Gas lamps flickered along the broad avenues, illuminating the bustling evening traffic of horse carriages, commercial carts, and pedestrians. High above the brick rooflines, the distant electric arc lamps of the central goods yard cast a steady, cool radiance against the low autumn clouds.

Ernest pulled his pocket watch from his waistcoat: six-thirty-eight.

His carriage turned through the wrought-iron gates of the Valemont townhouse at precisely six-thirty-nine.

The front doors of the residence opened immediately. A liveried footman greeted him with a polite bow, showing him into the warm, wood-paneled entrance hall.

Lord Adrian Valemont emerged from the adjacent library, holding an unlit cigar. "Ernest. Good evening."