STRANGER. This is too much! I'd have you know that I'm a famous
man. (The LANDLORD and MOURNERS laugh.)

LANDLORD. Infamous, probably! Let me look at the police list, and
see if the description tallies: thirty-eight, brown hair,
moustache, blue eyes; no settled employment, means unknown;
married, but has deserted his wife and children; well known for
revolutionary views on social questions: gives impression he is not
in full possession of his faculties. ... It fits!

STRANGER (rising, pale and taken aback). What?

LANDLORD. Yes. It fits all right.

BEGGAR. Perhaps he's on the list. And not me!

LANDLORD. It looks like it. In any case, both of you had better
clear out.

BEGGAR (to the STRANGER). Shall we?

STRANGER. We? This begins to look like a conspiracy.

(The church bells are heard. The sun comes out and illuminates the
coloured rose window above the church door, which is now opened,
disclosing the interior. The organ is heard and the choir singing
Ave Maris Stella.)

LADY (coming from the church). Where are you? What are you doing?