“The prisoner has already pleaded,” Farriman fussed, and at last looked up at Gunn. He could only see Gunn’s head and shoulders, and Gunn could only see a foreshortened view of his grey hair with the pink bald patch, his pince-nez on a flabby nose.

“He pleaded not guilty,” Gunn said mildly.

“I should think so,” said the girl, with greater assurance. “I think—”

“Please, please,” interrupted Farriman. “If the bench would like to hear you then will you please—” He broke off.

“Do you wish to be represented by this young lady?” Gunn asked Rapelli.

Rapelli moistened his lips and said something.

“Speak up, speak up!” Farriman urged.

Gunn opened his mouth, on the verge of angry reproof, checked himself, scribbled “leave this to me” on a slip of paper and leaned forward and handed it down to Farriman who adjusted his pince-nez, frowned, read and read again. There was a fresh tension in the court, and now everyone was watching Rapelli closely.

“Let me ask you another question,” Gunn said to the accused. “Do you know this young lady?” He smiled down at the girl. “Perhaps you will turn round so that the accused may see you.”

She narrowed her eyes in a frown which brought a deep groove between her eyes, then turned abruptly, and said, “We know each other very well. Don’t we, Mario?”

The young man moved his lips, and admitted “Yes.”

“Do you wish to be represented by her?” Gunn asked again. “You may be, and I am quite prepared to allow you time for discussion in private.”

Farriman wriggled in disapproval. Everyone, including Roger West, was staring at the couple. There was a facial similarity between them and their lean, spare figures made them look as if they might be brother and sister.

“I would like her to represent me,” Rapelli said at last; and he closed his eyes.