Mercedes was tired, covered in dust and dirt and splattered with mud. He'd come as quickly as he could to London from Dover, a good three hours of riding, and now he was not only emotionally exhausted, but physically so too. "Sabana..." He said, "Forgive the lateness but... but I need your advice." The Frenchman explained, hand resting on the frame of her door to hold himself up and stop himself from swaying. "About the Laurents, please. It can not wait."