He was sizing her up, she guessed, mentally taking notes, trying to come to a decision. In other words, he was behaving like a judge deciding the verdict, with the sentence to follow.

He might have been in his late thirties, although his stern face and haughty demeanour made him seem older. He was handsome in a fierce, uncompromising way that had more to do with something in his eyes than with the shape of his features.

Suddenly he spoke, indicating the small bag that hung from her shoulder. ‘What do you have in there?’

‘My passport,’ she said, ‘and papers generally.’

‘Let me see.’

She handed him the bag and he glanced through briefly, examining the papers until he came to her passport. Without hesitation he took it, placing it in an inside pocket of his jacket.

Holly opened her mouth to protest but was checked by his glance. It was hard, forbidding, and it compelled her silence.

‘Good,’ he said, handing the bag to her. ‘You have all you need.’

‘I need my passport.’

‘No, you don’t. Do it my way and don’t argue.’

‘Now, look-’

‘Do you want my help or don’t you?’

‘Of course, but I-’

‘Then take my advice and stay as quiet as you can. From now on, not a word. Try to look stupid. Practise that if you have to, but don’t speak.’

‘But I had to leave a suitcase further down the train,’ she burst out. ‘I must get it.’

‘Why?’

‘My clothes-’

‘You don’t need them. And trying to recover your possessions would lead you into danger.’

Into the arms of the police, he meant, and she realised he was right. Holly would have been grateful for his warning but for a feeling he was chiefly concerned about the inconvenience to himself.

The train was slowing, gliding into Rome railway station, coming to a halt. Immediately a man appeared wearing the uniform of a chauffeur and signalled through the window. The judge signalled back, and a moment later the man entered the compartment.