Flavia quite nearly swears as the man addresses them both; and, after a moment, is rather glad she hadn't, hearing the terrified whispers from the boy now clinging to her shirttail. Whoever he is, he's French--or from Gaul, she allows, it does look like he's wearing an odd sort of ancient tunic--and it's likely the policeman isn't.

"Yes, my name is Anne," she says, hoping her French at least sounds fluid and conversational enough to be believable. And that the boy doesn't idiotically destroy their entire facade, trying to correct any mistakes she might make. "And this, he is my brother--who are you, then? A policeman? I do not known you; you have the face of a monkey, and the mind maybe of the crazy person." As she speaks, she starts wheeling Gladys closer towards the front of the alley, trusting the boy will follow behind.