He must have dozed off for a few hours, because he was woken with a start by someone opening the outhouse door and throwing something into one of the bins. When they left, he checked it: half a loaf of bread and two or three wrinkled apples. Nourished by this and rested after his nap, he could think more clearly, and as he did so, he remembered that last evening in Matlock, when he and Gilbey were alone in the dining room and Gilbey had assured him he was an agent he could trust implicitly.

We have a further source in Copenhagen, one so highly placed and so important to us that you are only to approach him in the most extreme of circumstances. His code name is Browning… I’m about to tell you how to contact him.

Prince left the outhouse later that morning, conscious that he smelt and looked just like someone who’d spent the last two days in the company of rats. Along with the absence of a legitimationskort or any other papers, he could be excused for feeling wary.

But he also felt distinctly unwell, the spreading rash now very painful and his temperature rising, and it was an effort to focus on what he had to do next. He recalled Gilbey’s instructions.

Steal a bicycle. I’m told Copenhagen is full of them: annoying things. Do your best not to get caught.

He took a tram from Vesterbro to the Kongens Have park, where he’d previously noticed a large number of bicycles parked by Gothersgade. He took a seat on a bench in the shadow thrown by an avenue of trees and waited for prey to appear. Ten minutes later, it arrived: a man in his forties, perhaps, in a hurry and with a briefcase strapped behind the seat. He placed the bicycle against the railings and strode off, adjusting his hat and tie as he did so, heading north away from the park and from Prince’s destination.

Prince waited another five minutes, and when he was sure no one was paying the slightest attention, he casually strolled up to the bicycle, mounted it and rode away.

The bike shop is in Indre By, in the centre of Copenhagen. It’s down a narrow alley off Pilestræde. You won’t be able to miss it; it’s the only bike shop there. Even has a bloody bike over the entrance, I’m told.

It was only a short ride, but before he reached Pilestræde, Prince stopped, dismounted and fiddled with the front wheel. He walked along with the bike for the remainder of the journey.

The shop’s called Jensen, that’s all. Jensen’s the name of the owner too.