Perhaps he doesn’t know it was her who took the watch. Perhaps Ray Calladine did not tell him. The greedy little bastard would have been too eager to receive his reward to let slip exactly how he had come to have it.

‘I was very disappointed that you skipped off after our evening of fun together,’ he says. ‘I had been looking forward to breakfast in bed.’

‘Well,’ she says, trying to pull away, but finding that she cannot. ‘I had other places to be, like I told you.’

‘You did. Walk with me?’ It is an invitation, but the strength of his grip suggests that she has no alternative. He tucks her arm through his and clamps her firmly against him. ‘We’ll go this way, shall we? Back to the club.’

‘If you like.’

They stroll past shops without speaking. A gentleman’s outfitter, a bookshop, a tobacconist. He walks confidently and at a fair pace, but not briskly. A man of purpose, rather than a man in a hurry. All Ruby can do is trot to keep up with his long strides and try not to trip over.

They have not gone too far when he decides to break their silence. The street is already busy – people are out taking the air, beginning their day, thinking about the day’s tasks – but no one else will hear his softly spoken words.

‘I think you owe me, Ruby Mills.’

‘Owe you? Owe you what?’ She has no money.

‘The price I was forced to pay to Raymond Calladine for the return of my pocket watch.’

She catches her breath.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ The words come out too quickly. Foolish.

He grasps one of her fingers and begins to twist it as they walk along. Ruby tries to pull away, but he is too strong and has her firmly caught.

‘Well, you’re a better thief than you are a liar, I’ll give you that.’

No one will notice what he is doing. They are simply two people, a man and a woman, walking arm in arm down a street. Only they know that one of them is about to dislocate the other’s finger. Ruby fights the howl of pain and terror that is gathering in her throat. He twists a little harder and then releases her hand. He continues to walk, unconcerned by her agony, with her arm still held fast under his own.

‘What do you want?’ She whimpers out the words, desperately trying to pull away. She should shout, scream, attract someone’s attention.

‘I told you, when we first met, I could use a girl like you.’

‘You think I’m a prostitute?’ she asks, through gritted teeth. What would she tell a passer-by, even if she did call for help? That she stole this man’s watch and he has twisted her fingers?