“Ever see the like, sir?”

“No, Sergeant, never. No room at the Court, eh?”

“Take my tip, sir, you go down into the cells and on up that way. When his nibs comes in he’ll clear this mob away. Follow his nibs, sir, that’s the safest thing.”

“What it is to have friends,” murmured Rollison appreciatively.

“We owe you a turn or two when we think of the number of prisoners you’ve put in the dock for us, sir.”

Rollison thought: “It’s a rewarding world, after all.”

He went down the flight of steps the sergeant had indicated, and into the quietness of the room below. Here, a few prisoners and a few policemen sat or stood about, amongst them three solicitors of his acquaintance. One nodded. The third came up, a man whose name Rollison could not recall.

“Who’s your client, Rollison?”

“Just a watching brief.”

“Don’t say Madam Melinska fleeced you, too, she’s only been in this country a few months. Must be a quick worker, what?” The man laughed coarsely.

“Prejudgment?” murmured Rollison.

“Personal opinion. She’s a smooth-tongued bitch.”

“You’re not appearing for her, I trust? Nor against her?” Rollison added hastily.

“No,” the other answered.

“What do you know about the girl?”

“A chip off the old bitch.”

“Mr Godley!” a younger man called, and the man with Rollison turned away, with a grunt which may have been “excuse me.” Rollison watched him striding on stumpy legs towards the cells, and echoed in disgust:

“Godley, good God!”

Then an odd realisation came to him. He was angry with Godley for his condemnation of the two women.

As he assimilated this fact, a tall, grey-haired, austere-looking man came in at a side door: Nimmo, the stipendiary magistrate in charge. Ignoring everyone, he strode towards an arched wooden door marked: Magistrate. Private. Rollison watched it close behind him; then, feeling a rising curiosity, glanced round for a newspaper which might help him to understand more about the charge. He was beginning to thirst for knowledge of Madam Melinska and her assistant, Mona Lister.