And one day he was there, a sulphurous whiff of orchid about him, perhaps the pomade to blacken his hair, standing on the chequered marble floor of the café on Great Portland Street. There is a slip of yellow paper protruding from his hatband, and a woodbine stuck to his lower lip, and as his lean figure stalks by, his expensive leather soles clacking loudly, his innate air of calm spreads around him like an autumnal pool.

The glance out of the window suggests his vigilance, but it may be the glance of a lover awaiting his wren. As he answers the waiter’s hushed questions in the empty and luxurious cafe, barely shifting his features, the waiter notices his slender fingers and his immaculate clothes. Then he notices the slip of yellow paper slotted neatly in the hatband, and makes a silent calculation.