“People do that,” said the one with the lantern. “It’s why they take the boots.”

“Also,” said the other, “they want the boots.”

“There was a woman,” said Lacroix. He could not get past the knowledge he had been kicked on the ground by a woman.

“Small one or a big one?”

“She had freckles, I think.”

“Well, we will look for her. You never know.”

They stood a while in silence, as if they had forgotten whose turn it was to speak. “I need to lie down,” said Lacroix. “I am hurt.”

“Are you a visitor?”

“A what?”

“A visitor?”

“Yes.”

“You won’t think much of the place now.”

“Can you take me somewhere?” asked Lacroix. “Please. I need to lie down.”

“It would be best to go somewhere close,” said the man who had lifted him, and who now picked up the bag and the fiddle. “For the sake of your feet.”

It did not feel close. They walked the length of the street, then the length of the next. They turned down an alley, came out on to a third street, and finally up a dozen stone steps to a door. Beyond the door was a passage. It was lit at the end by a single cruisie lamp on a table.

They sat Lacroix on a stool. After much calling a woman appeared. She was, thought Lacroix, what the police must call a big woman. Between her and the men—who Lacroix now saw were dressed neatly in blue coats to their knees—there was a conversation he did not try to follow, though at some point he became aware they were asking him his name.

“My name?”

“For our records.”

“You keep records?”

“Oh yes. The records are very important. Everything in writing. Now then . . . ” His pen, dipped, was poised over the paper.

“Lovall,” said Lacroix.

“Once more?”

“Lovall. Lov-all.”

The policeman wrote it carefully. He had a kind face, a little like the choirmaster’s at Wells. When he had finished he showed it to Lacroix. “Have I got it?”

Lacroix nodded.