“What will you have to drink?”

“A gin and French, please.”

He poured out a whisky and soda for himself, carried the drinks across and sat down opposite her, the small table in between.

“Cheers.”

“Cheers.” Naomi Smith sipped. “And thank you for your courtesy.”

Rollison gave a vague gesture of acknowledgement.

“How can I help you?” As she stared at him with a curiously quizzical expression, he added, smiling: “Or have you come to help me?”

She had a very good complexion for a woman in her forties, he reflected. He was beginning to like her. Almost at once he reminded himself that she might have come to beg or to borrow, even to con him. Back in his memory he remembered a very plain woman named Belle, as convincing a confidence trickster as any he had ever met.

“No,” she said. “I want your help.”

He should have been wary, but he was not.

“In what way?”

“It’s a little difficult to explain simply,” she said. “Will you bear with me if I seem to ramble?” she sipped again. “I am the resident superintendent of a rather unusual hostel, for young women, and I am troubled by a situation which has developed quite recently. Something is frightening them, and two have left without any explanation. I could go to the police but if I did so there might be a scandal, and I’m sure that many of them would greatly resent it. And my control is positive but yet delicately balanced. I could undo in one day what I’ve done—or tried to do—over several years. These are not the easiest days for young people—or for those who try to help and guide them.” Naomi Smith paused, “Have I made any sense to you?”

“In some ways, a great deal,” said Rollison. He considered, and then said tentatively: “You run a hostel for fallen angels, I gather?”

Her smile disappeared, but not in disapproval.

“A very apt description.”

“Very special angels, I gather,” he said drily.