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"I do hope our cabin is to your liking sir."
Robert J Baxter stood casually, arms folded, and absorbed the stately room in one brief gaze, attaining all that was needed in those few select moments, a sizeable bed, with cover upon cover of a rich deep red material, no doubt costing any honourable businessman a small fortune, and a ridiculous venture for the White Star Line. Against the rear wall stood a long, seamlessly polished dresser, whose surface gleamed in the sun's presence. Upon it, lay a sliver of white, delicately crafted and unused soap, engraved in its silky form, like every other object on board, with the highly recognisable insignia of the White Star Line. It lay among numerous other personal effects, such as a comb, a sink, a mirror, such basics yet encased by the most luxurious surroundings man had ever created. A magnificent blend of the most rarefied antiquities and modern conveniences. None of which Baxter would be needing.
"Yes Warner, it's perfect thank you." The young steward placed the two cases in his hands upon the bed, each labelled to the name 'R.J Baxter, Cabin A11". The bags weren't heavy, having packed and arranged them himself; Robert knew this, but the poor steward, whose pasty skin and clerk's hands revealed that he was more used to the work of a paper boy, still appeared strained and relieved to be rid of the weight.
"Are there any personal effects sir would like me to place around the room?"
Baxter fiddled with the fraying embroidery on his sleeve.
"Don't 'sir' me, please, I work for a living."
"Of course," the steward struggled to choke back the force of habit, 'Mr Baxter."
Robert removed his overly starched and uncomfortable jacket, tossing it haphazardly onto the bed, for the nervous steward to quickly fold and hang carefully on its allocated hanger. Relaxing then, back into the plush lounge chair, of similar size and colour to the bed, Robert loosened his collar and tie whilst absently flicking through the many notes, cards, and introductory letters that littered the coffee table, courtesy of the White Star Line. Courtesy of the RMS Titanic and her crew. Sample menus, for tonight's meal included specialties of caviar, cocktails, and the like; Robert had lived off worse, and it certainly sounded pleasant. But he would not be dining there tonight. Robert lifted his gaze to the still loitering steward, who was now hastily trying to re-arrange Robert's cases, moving them from bed to floor, from floor to chair, then back to the bed again, Robert deduced that Warner was most definitely the greenest of the grasses aboard this establishment.
"Warner, leave them be and fetch me a brandy would you?"
The steward inclined his head respectfully, relieved to have been instructed to a duty he was at least somewhat familiar with. He moved towards a small cupboard beneath the dresser, and with a small key, dangling from a chain of many, opened it up, revealing an untouched fully stocked drinks cabinet.
"Ice, sir?", the lad enquired.
Robert tossed another card over his shoulder, such useless cascades of commercialism and promotion, why above all things, he mused, would a ship of such size, fame and grandeur, need so much advertisement, even after she had left harbour?
"Yes thank you."
There was the clink of ice against thin glass, and the bitter liquid was poured.
"Anything else sir?"
Robert declined, and the small, neatly designed glass was placed down before him. He thanked the steward with a curt nod, but despite the insinuation for him to leave, Warner continued to hover. Robert lifted his gaze.
"Can I help you?"
Warner shifted fretfully, he reached a hand into his inner pocket, and moments later, withdrew a small white card, not unlike the many Robert had only just disposed of, with a similar insignia, and emblem, only this one was decorated with two fine blue lines of the most elaborate handwriting. Personalized, Robert thought.
"From a certain Madame dePré sir."
"Oh please Warner, Mr Baxter or Robert will do."
"Apologies Mr Baxter." Obviously the man was unwilling as to address Robert on first name terms. Robert took the card from the steward's waiting hand, and read the note carefully, it was abrupt, and informative, typical of the British intelligence, so impersonal, Robert thought.

Noon, meet me in the Gymnasium
Don't be late! I hear you have quite a terrible reputation in punctuality, Mr Baxter.
B. dePré

"A terrible upstart of a woman." Warner continued. "spent most of the whole morning complaining at the purser's office that she was meant to have been in a first class cabin!" Robert nodded, only half listening, before pocketing the card, 'noon, that's in ten minutes'.
"And to think!" Warner complained, exasperated, "That if every 2nd class passenger started digging around in areas they should most definitely not be involved in-!"
"Thank you Warner." Robert interrupted. "But I have to be on my way and I'd prefer it if you would not loiter in my cabin when I am gone." He extended an arm politely towards the door. "After you my good man." Warner reddened, and begrudgingly obeyed the implication to leave. Robert closed the door as soon as the Stewards footsteps were no longer audible, locking it hurriedly behind him. He would need to be quick, apparently this woman did not accept excuses for punctuality. At a brisk walk, he quickly arrived at the coffee table, snatching over a crumpled card while the other hand removed a smart looking pen from his pocket. Without much thought or precision, he scribbled.

Met B.D,
Thanks to British Intelligence for contact.
Target received,
Will notify upon completion.
Officer R.J Baxter.

Robert folded the memo, and slipped it through the drawer of his dressing table; he would need to send that as soon as possible after his meeting with Miss dePré.
But time was not of the object. After all, he had the best part of a week. Just as long as the message was received before the Titanic docked in New York.