Nimmo came out, wearing a gown; an M.A. gown.

Almost immediately, Rollison followed him up the steps, past the dock with its shiny brass rail, close to the bench to which Nimmo was climbing. The clerk to the Court had summoned everyone to stand, and a solid mass of people rose. Rollison was close to the dock and expected to be moved on at any moment.

Nimmo sat down; everyone sat down except the mass of people jammed in the doorway. Nimmo glanced across, and said:

“Those who can sit down may stay.”

So he was in a genial mood, thought Rollison.

There was much shoving and pushing and whispering; then surprisingly, a hush: and in the hush Nimmo looked down at the clerk, and said:

“I’ll take the first case.”

“Very good, your honour.” The clerk whispered to an usher, the usher whispered to a policeman, by some magic signal the door at the foot of the steps opened, and a wardress appeared; then a girl; next a dark, gypsylike woman; and finally a second wardress. The clerk was whispering to the magistrate, until quite suddenly formality took over.

“Prisoners in the dock—answer to your names, please. Mona Daphne Lesley Lister.”

The girl nodded. Her reply was almost inaudible.

“Madam Melinska.”

“I am Madam Melinska,” the older woman said.

She had a soft but carrying voice with a faintly foreign inflection; she might be Spanish, Rollison thought, or Italian, or Southern French. She glanced away from the clerk and then saw Rollison—and on that instant Rollison’s whole mood changed, from one of lively interest to one of absolute astonishment.

For she looked at him.

And she smiled.

And her lips formed his name with great, almost loving care.

“Mr Rollison,” she said.