The inspector took the oath.

“. . . and nothing but the truth, so help me God. On the third day . . . and warned them that anything they said would be taken down and could be used as evidence.”

“Did they reply to your charge?” asked Nimmo.

“Yes, sir.”

“What did they say?”

“The younger of the accused said it was a frame-up.”

“Indeed.” Nimmo’s voice was like ice.

“Yes, sir. The older of the accused said she didn’t understand.”

“Did she say what she didn’t understand, Inspector?”

“No, sir, she appeared to be very puzzled.”

“I see. Well, they have been charged and they have entered a plea of not guilty. Have you the necessary evidence to proceed?”

“No, your honour. We should like to apply for a remand so as to complete our inquiries.”

Nimmo’s eyebrows rose.

“Bail?” he inquired.

“We have no objection, sir.”

“Are there any sureties for the accused in Court?” asked Nimmo. No one replied. There was a sense of tension and of waiting, a look of pleading on the older prisoner’s face, and one of defiance on the girl’s. All at once Nimmo came to a quick, brusque decision.

“I bind both the accused over in sums of one hundred pounds each. Are there sureties?”

The magistrate was leaning forward to the dock.

“Can you find one hundred pounds each?” he asked in a clear whisper; and Nimmo, a stickler for the etiquette of the Court, did no more than look his disapproval.

Rollison said very clearly: “I will go surety in those sums, your honour.”

Nimmo, Madam Melinska, the girl, everyone else in Court, turned swiftly towards him. Then Madam Melinska smiled once again.

After that, it was simply a matter of formalities, answering questions from the Press and arranging for an eager-to-help woman journalist—Olivia Cordman, Features Editor of The Day, to see the two accused women to their home. Rollison suddenly realized that he had no idea where they lived; but doubtless Olivia, who was an old acquaintance, would get in touch with him, if not the women themselves.