The door to the managers' office creaked open slowly. Illuminated by the soft light emanating from a hallway luminary, Richard Firmin ambled over to his desk, laying eye upon a familiar but still-crisp piece of paper.
He had read those words before, many times. G. Andre, the paper was signed.
Firmin smiled, and gently lifted the paper, briefly tracing the signature with a feather touch.
That's when he noticed the rose. It was tied with a black ribbon. Gilles certainly does have a rather singular way of going about things like this.
But affixed to the ribbon was another paper, also familiar. Placing the document on the desk, Firmin peered at the attached memo.
It bore only the words, I know.
Firmin made an urgent mental note to make a visit to the Opera treasury. Twenty-thousand Francs, he reminded himself.