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In short order, you are able to get your hand-cart hauled over to the Closet without too much trouble - though your quickened pace does put a bit more strain in your arms, and the wheels are still creaking incessantly. As you had hoped, the door to this particular Closet faces away from the still-trafficked street you just turned off of - instead, it points down the desolate side-street you just turned on to. Were it not for the fact that there were lampposts - as of this hour, still unlit - at intervals, you might have mistaken it for a particularly large alley at first glance.
You know from experience that the last thing you should do is stand around, gawking up and down the street - under your current circumstances, speed is going to have to supplant stealth. Accepting no further delay, you alight upon the cast-iron handle of the spotted wooden shack, and pry its half-stuck door open. A wall of unpleasantly moist warmth rushes out to greet you, and the smell - which was already noticeable - precipitously worsens. Besides the wafting warmth and redolence, however, there is very little inside, however. Almost nothing, actually, as it is just the hatch, raised slightly off of the street, and some unpleasant looking stains and smears in its vicinity, nothing else. Far from pleasant, but further still from unbearable - and you are only going to be inside but a moment.
You wrangle your hand-cart immediately inside the Closet's door, then once you are satisfied that you can clear the cart with the door, you shut it. With that, your business here is concluded. As you depart, you silently pray that the stigma and the foul humors of this place are enough to keep your cart unmolested in your absence ... and that you didn't accidentally step in anything while you were inside. Unencumbered by the cart, your long legs can once again make long strides, and almost startlingly quick, you find yourself a few streets away, in front of the Port Authority clerk-house. The door is still open, but you cannot image that it will remain open long past the eighteenth hour. But still, you come to a stop in front of the building. While you have decide to present yourself inside as a maid, you have not yet made up your mind as to whose maid you are going to be. You fret over your options for a moment, but with the prospect of having the front door closed on you while you dally over this, you resolve to take the safest possible option available - your business will not have anything directly to do with Family Patents, which means that the identity of your fictitious Master is not going to be particularly important either. In fact, you might have a nifty little stratagem to work your way around that entirely. You take a quick series of surreptitious sniffs, to make sure you are presentable, then after allowing yourself the luxury of a single deep breath for fortification, you bound up the stairs and through the door of the clerk-house.
