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diff --git a/974-h/974-h.htm b/974-h/974-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f7f3bff --- /dev/null +++ b/974-h/974-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,12152 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" +"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=utf-8" /> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> +<title>The Project Gutenberg Book of The Secret Agent, by Joseph Conrad</title> + +<style type="text/css"> + +body { margin-left: 20%; + margin-right: 20%; + text-align: justify; } + +p {text-indent: 1em; + margin-top: 0.25em; + margin-bottom: 0.25em; } + + H1, H2 { + text-align: center; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + } + H3, H4, H5 { + text-align: center; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; + } + + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + +a:link {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:visited {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:hover {color:red} + + </style> +</head> +<body> + +<div style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Secret Agent, by Joseph Conrad</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online +at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you +are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the +country where you are located before using this eBook. +</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: The Secret Agent<br /> +A Simple Tale</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Joseph Conrad</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: June 28, 1997 [eBook #974]<br /> +[Most recently updated: February 12, 2023]</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: David Price</div> +<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SECRET AGENT ***</div> + +<h1><span class="smcap">the</span><br /> +SECRET AGENT<br /> +<span class="smcap">a simple tale</span></h1> + +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">by</span><br /> +JOSEPH CONRAD</p> + +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">second +edition</span></p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">methuen & +co.</span>,<br /> +<span class="smcap">36 essex street w c.</span><br /> +<span class="smcap">london</span></p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>First Published</i> . . . +<i>September</i> 1907</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Second Edition</i> . . . +<i>October</i> 1907</p> +<p style="text-align: center">TO<br /> +H. G. WELLS</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">the chronicler +of mr lewisham’s love</span><br /> +<span class="smcap">the biographer of kipps and the</span><br /> +<span class="smcap">historian of the ages to come</span></p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">this simple +tale of the xix century</span><br /> +<span class="smcap">is affectionately offered</span></p> + +<h2>CHAPTER I</h2> + +<p>Mr Verloc, going out in the morning, left his shop nominally +in charge of his brother-in-law. It could be done, because +there was very little business at any time, and practically none +at all before the evening. Mr Verloc cared but little about +his ostensible business. And, moreover, his wife was in +charge of his brother-in-law.</p> + +<p>The shop was small, and so was the house. It was one of +those grimy brick houses which existed in large quantities before +the era of reconstruction dawned upon London. The shop was +a square box of a place, with the front glazed in small +panes. In the daytime the door remained closed; in the +evening it stood discreetly but suspiciously ajar.</p> + +<p>The window contained photographs of more or less undressed +dancing girls; nondescript packages in wrappers like patent +medicines; closed yellow paper envelopes, very flimsy, and marked +two-and-six in heavy black figures; a few numbers of ancient +French comic publications hung across a string as if to dry; a +dingy blue china bowl, a casket of black wood, bottles of marking +ink, and rubber stamps; a few books, with titles hinting at +impropriety; a few apparently old copies of obscure newspapers, +badly printed, with titles like <i>The Torch</i>, <i>The +Gong</i>—rousing titles. And the two gas jets inside +the panes were always turned low, either for economy’s sake +or for the sake of the customers.</p> + +<p>These customers were either very young men, who hung about the +window for a time before slipping in suddenly; or men of a more +mature age, but looking generally as if they were not in +funds. Some of that last kind had the collars of their +overcoats turned right up to their moustaches, and traces of mud +on the bottom of their nether garments, which had the appearance +of being much worn and not very valuable. And the legs +inside them did not, as a general rule, seem of much account +either. With their hands plunged deep in the side pockets +of their coats, they dodged in sideways, one shoulder first, as +if afraid to start the bell going.</p> + +<p>The bell, hung on the door by means of a curved ribbon of +steel, was difficult to circumvent. It was hopelessly +cracked; but of an evening, at the slightest provocation, it +clattered behind the customer with impudent virulence.</p> + +<p>It clattered; and at that signal, through the dusty glass door +behind the painted deal counter, Mr Verloc would issue hastily +from the parlour at the back. His eyes were naturally +heavy; he had an air of having wallowed, fully dressed, all day +on an unmade bed. Another man would have felt such an +appearance a distinct disadvantage. In a commercial +transaction of the retail order much depends on the +seller’s engaging and amiable aspect. But Mr Verloc +knew his business, and remained undisturbed by any sort of +æsthetic doubt about his appearance. With a firm, +steady-eyed impudence, which seemed to hold back the threat of +some abominable menace, he would proceed to sell over the counter +some object looking obviously and scandalously not worth the +money which passed in the transaction: a small cardboard box with +apparently nothing inside, for instance, or one of those +carefully closed yellow flimsy envelopes, or a soiled volume in +paper covers with a promising title. Now and then it +happened that one of the faded, yellow dancing girls would get +sold to an amateur, as though she had been alive and young.</p> + +<p>Sometimes it was Mrs Verloc who would appear at the call of +the cracked bell. Winnie Verloc was a young woman with a +full bust, in a tight bodice, and with broad hips. Her hair +was very tidy. Steady-eyed like her husband, she preserved +an air of unfathomable indifference behind the rampart of the +counter. Then the customer of comparatively tender years +would get suddenly disconcerted at having to deal with a woman, +and with rage in his heart would proffer a request for a bottle +of marking ink, retail value sixpence (price in Verloc’s +shop one-and-sixpence), which, once outside, he would drop +stealthily into the gutter.</p> + +<p>The evening visitors—the men with collars turned up and +soft hats rammed down—nodded familiarly to Mrs Verloc, and +with a muttered greeting, lifted up the flap at the end of the +counter in order to pass into the back parlour, which gave access +to a passage and to a steep flight of stairs. The door of +the shop was the only means of entrance to the house in which Mr +Verloc carried on his business of a seller of shady wares, +exercised his vocation of a protector of society, and cultivated +his domestic virtues. These last were pronounced. He +was thoroughly domesticated. Neither his spiritual, nor his +mental, nor his physical needs were of the kind to take him much +abroad. He found at home the ease of his body and the peace +of his conscience, together with Mrs Verloc’s wifely +attentions and Mrs Verloc’s mother’s deferential +regard.</p> + +<p>Winnie’s mother was a stout, wheezy woman, with a large +brown face. She wore a black wig under a white cap. +Her swollen legs rendered her inactive. She considered +herself to be of French descent, which might have been true; and +after a good many years of married life with a licensed +victualler of the more common sort, she provided for the years of +widowhood by letting furnished apartments for gentlemen near +Vauxhall Bridge Road in a square once of some splendour and still +included in the district of Belgravia. This topographical +fact was of some advantage in advertising her rooms; but the +patrons of the worthy widow were not exactly of the fashionable +kind. Such as they were, her daughter Winnie helped to look +after them. Traces of the French descent which the widow +boasted of were apparent in Winnie too. They were apparent +in the extremely neat and artistic arrangement of her glossy dark +hair. Winnie had also other charms: her youth; her full, +rounded form; her clear complexion; the provocation of her +unfathomable reserve, which never went so far as to prevent +conversation, carried on on the lodgers’ part with +animation, and on hers with an equable amiability. It must +be that Mr Verloc was susceptible to these fascinations. Mr +Verloc was an intermittent patron. He came and went without +any very apparent reason. He generally arrived in London +(like the influenza) from the Continent, only he arrived +unheralded by the Press; and his visitations set in with great +severity. He breakfasted in bed, and remained wallowing +there with an air of quiet enjoyment till noon every +day—and sometimes even to a later hour. But when he +went out he seemed to experience a great difficulty in finding +his way back to his temporary home in the Belgravian +square. He left it late, and returned to it early—as +early as three or four in the morning; and on waking up at ten +addressed Winnie, bringing in the breakfast tray, with jocular, +exhausted civility, in the hoarse, failing tones of a man who had +been talking vehemently for many hours together. His +prominent, heavy-lidded eyes rolled sideways amorously and +languidly, the bedclothes were pulled up to his chin, and his +dark smooth moustache covered his thick lips capable of much +honeyed banter.</p> + +<p>In Winnie’s mother’s opinion Mr Verloc was a very +nice gentleman. From her life’s experience gathered +in various “business houses” the good woman had taken +into her retirement an ideal of gentlemanliness as exhibited by +the patrons of private-saloon bars. Mr Verloc approached +that ideal; he attained it, in fact.</p> + +<p>“Of course, we’ll take over your furniture, +mother,” Winnie had remarked.</p> + +<p>The lodging-house was to be given up. It seems it would +not answer to carry it on. It would have been too much +trouble for Mr Verloc. It would not have been convenient +for his other business. What his business was he did not +say; but after his engagement to Winnie he took the trouble to +get up before noon, and descending the basement stairs, make +himself pleasant to Winnie’s mother in the breakfast-room +downstairs where she had her motionless being. He stroked +the cat, poked the fire, had his lunch served to him there. +He left its slightly stuffy cosiness with evident reluctance, +but, all the same, remained out till the night was far +advanced. He never offered to take Winnie to theatres, as +such a nice gentleman ought to have done. His evenings were +occupied. His work was in a way political, he told Winnie +once. She would have, he warned her, to be very nice to his +political friends.</p> + +<p>And with her straight, unfathomable glance she answered that +she would be so, of course.</p> + +<p>How much more he told her as to his occupation it was +impossible for Winnie’s mother to discover. The +married couple took her over with the furniture. The mean +aspect of the shop surprised her. The change from the +Belgravian square to the narrow street in Soho affected her legs +adversely. They became of an enormous size. On the +other hand, she experienced a complete relief from material +cares. Her son-in-law’s heavy good nature inspired +her with a sense of absolute safety. Her daughter’s +future was obviously assured, and even as to her son Stevie she +need have no anxiety. She had not been able to conceal from +herself that he was a terrible encumbrance, that poor +Stevie. But in view of Winnie’s fondness for her +delicate brother, and of Mr Verloc’s kind and generous +disposition, she felt that the poor boy was pretty safe in this +rough world. And in her heart of hearts she was not perhaps +displeased that the Verlocs had no children. As that +circumstance seemed perfectly indifferent to Mr Verloc, and as +Winnie found an object of quasi-maternal affection in her +brother, perhaps this was just as well for poor Stevie.</p> + +<p>For he was difficult to dispose of, that boy. He was +delicate and, in a frail way, good-looking too, except for the +vacant droop of his lower lip. Under our excellent system +of compulsory education he had learned to read and write, +notwithstanding the unfavourable aspect of the lower lip. +But as errand-boy he did not turn out a great success. He +forgot his messages; he was easily diverted from the straight +path of duty by the attractions of stray cats and dogs, which he +followed down narrow alleys into unsavoury courts; by the +comedies of the streets, which he contemplated open-mouthed, to +the detriment of his employer’s interests; or by the dramas +of fallen horses, whose pathos and violence induced him sometimes +to shriek pierceingly in a crowd, which disliked to be disturbed +by sounds of distress in its quiet enjoyment of the national +spectacle. When led away by a grave and protecting +policeman, it would often become apparent that poor Stevie had +forgotten his address—at least for a time. A brusque +question caused him to stutter to the point of suffocation. +When startled by anything perplexing he used to squint +horribly. However, he never had any fits (which was +encouraging); and before the natural outbursts of impatience on +the part of his father he could always, in his childhood’s +days, run for protection behind the short skirts of his sister +Winnie. On the other hand, he might have been suspected of +hiding a fund of reckless naughtiness. When he had reached +the age of fourteen a friend of his late father, an agent for a +foreign preserved milk firm, having given him an opening as +office-boy, he was discovered one foggy afternoon, in his +chief’s absence, busy letting off fireworks on the +staircase. He touched off in quick succession a set of +fierce rockets, angry catherine wheels, loudly exploding +squibs—and the matter might have turned out very +serious. An awful panic spread through the whole +building. Wild-eyed, choking clerks stampeded through the +passages full of smoke, silk hats and elderly business men could +be seen rolling independently down the stairs. Stevie did +not seem to derive any personal gratification from what he had +done. His motives for this stroke of originality were +difficult to discover. It was only later on that Winnie +obtained from him a misty and confused confession. It seems +that two other office-boys in the building had worked upon his +feelings by tales of injustice and oppression till they had +wrought his compassion to the pitch of that frenzy. But his +father’s friend, of course, dismissed him summarily as +likely to ruin his business. After that altruistic exploit +Stevie was put to help wash the dishes in the basement kitchen, +and to black the boots of the gentlemen patronising the +Belgravian mansion. There was obviously no future in such +work. The gentlemen tipped him a shilling now and +then. Mr Verloc showed himself the most generous of +lodgers. But altogether all that did not amount to much +either in the way of gain or prospects; so that when Winnie +announced her engagement to Mr Verloc her mother could not help +wondering, with a sigh and a glance towards the scullery, what +would become of poor Stephen now.</p> + +<p>It appeared that Mr Verloc was ready to take him over together +with his wife’s mother and with the furniture, which was +the whole visible fortune of the family. Mr Verloc gathered +everything as it came to his broad, good-natured breast. +The furniture was disposed to the best advantage all over the +house, but Mrs Verloc’s mother was confined to two back +rooms on the first floor. The luckless Stevie slept in one +of them. By this time a growth of thin fluffy hair had come +to blur, like a golden mist, the sharp line of his small lower +jaw. He helped his sister with blind love and docility in +her household duties. Mr Verloc thought that some +occupation would be good for him. His spare time he +occupied by drawing circles with compass and pencil on a piece of +paper. He applied himself to that pastime with great +industry, with his elbows spread out and bowed low over the +kitchen table. Through the open door of the parlour at the +back of the shop Winnie, his sister, glanced at him from time to +time with maternal vigilance.</p> + +<h2>CHAPTER II</h2> + +<p>Such was the house, the household, and the business Mr Verloc +left behind him on his way westward at the hour of half-past ten +in the morning. It was unusually early for him; his whole +person exhaled the charm of almost dewy freshness; he wore his +blue cloth overcoat unbuttoned; his boots were shiny; his cheeks, +freshly shaven, had a sort of gloss; and even his heavy-lidded +eyes, refreshed by a night of peaceful slumber, sent out glances +of comparative alertness. Through the park railings these +glances beheld men and women riding in the Row, couples cantering +past harmoniously, others advancing sedately at a walk, loitering +groups of three or four, solitary horsemen looking unsociable, +and solitary women followed at a long distance by a groom with a +cockade to his hat and a leather belt over his tight-fitting +coat. Carriages went bowling by, mostly two-horse +broughams, with here and there a victoria with the skin of some +wild beast inside and a woman’s face and hat emerging above +the folded hood. And a peculiarly London sun—against +which nothing could be said except that it looked +bloodshot—glorified all this by its stare. It hung at +a moderate elevation above Hyde Park Corner with an air of +punctual and benign vigilance. The very pavement under Mr +Verloc’s feet had an old-gold tinge in that diffused light, +in which neither wall, nor tree, nor beast, nor man cast a +shadow. Mr Verloc was going westward through a town without +shadows in an atmosphere of powdered old gold. There were +red, coppery gleams on the roofs of houses, on the corners of +walls, on the panels of carriages, on the very coats of the +horses, and on the broad back of Mr Verloc’s overcoat, +where they produced a dull effect of rustiness. But Mr +Verloc was not in the least conscious of having got rusty. +He surveyed through the park railings the evidences of the +town’s opulence and luxury with an approving eye. All +these people had to be protected. Protection is the first +necessity of opulence and luxury. They had to be protected; +and their horses, carriages, houses, servants had to be +protected; and the source of their wealth had to be protected in +the heart of the city and the heart of the country; the whole +social order favourable to their hygienic idleness had to be +protected against the shallow enviousness of unhygienic +labour. It had to—and Mr Verloc would have rubbed his +hands with satisfaction had he not been constitutionally averse +from every superfluous exertion. His idleness was not +hygienic, but it suited him very well. He was in a manner +devoted to it with a sort of inert fanaticism, or perhaps rather +with a fanatical inertness. Born of industrious parents for +a life of toil, he had embraced indolence from an impulse as +profound as inexplicable and as imperious as the impulse which +directs a man’s preference for one particular woman in a +given thousand. He was too lazy even for a mere demagogue, +for a workman orator, for a leader of labour. It was too +much trouble. He required a more perfect form of ease; or +it might have been that he was the victim of a philosophical +unbelief in the effectiveness of every human effort. Such a +form of indolence requires, implies, a certain amount of +intelligence. Mr Verloc was not devoid of +intelligence—and at the notion of a menaced social order he +would perhaps have winked to himself if there had not been an +effort to make in that sign of scepticism. His big, +prominent eyes were not well adapted to winking. They were +rather of the sort that closes solemnly in slumber with majestic +effect.</p> + +<p>Undemonstrative and burly in a fat-pig style, Mr Verloc, +without either rubbing his hands with satisfaction or winking +sceptically at his thoughts, proceeded on his way. He trod +the pavement heavily with his shiny boots, and his general get-up +was that of a well-to-do mechanic in business for himself. +He might have been anything from a picture-frame maker to a +lock-smith; an employer of labour in a small way. But there +was also about him an indescribable air which no mechanic could +have acquired in the practice of his handicraft however +dishonestly exercised: the air common to men who live on the +vices, the follies, or the baser fears of mankind; the air of +moral nihilism common to keepers of gambling hells and disorderly +houses; to private detectives and inquiry agents; to drink +sellers and, I should say, to the sellers of invigorating +electric belts and to the inventors of patent medicines. +But of that last I am not sure, not having carried my +investigations so far into the depths. For all I know, the +expression of these last may be perfectly diabolic. I +shouldn’t be surprised. What I want to affirm is that +Mr Verloc’s expression was by no means diabolic.</p> + +<p>Before reaching Knightsbridge, Mr Verloc took a turn to the +left out of the busy main thoroughfare, uproarious with the +traffic of swaying omnibuses and trotting vans, in the almost +silent, swift flow of hansoms. Under his hat, worn with a +slight backward tilt, his hair had been carefully brushed into +respectful sleekness; for his business was with an Embassy. +And Mr Verloc, steady like a rock—a soft kind of +rock—marched now along a street which could with every +propriety be described as private. In its breadth, +emptiness, and extent it had the majesty of inorganic nature, of +matter that never dies. The only reminder of mortality was +a doctor’s brougham arrested in august solitude close to +the curbstone. The polished knockers of the doors gleamed +as far as the eye could reach, the clean windows shone with a +dark opaque lustre. And all was still. But a milk +cart rattled noisily across the distant perspective; a butcher +boy, driving with the noble recklessness of a charioteer at +Olympic Games, dashed round the corner sitting high above a pair +of red wheels. A guilty-looking cat issuing from under the +stones ran for a while in front of Mr Verloc, then dived into +another basement; and a thick police constable, looking a +stranger to every emotion, as if he too were part of inorganic +nature, surging apparently out of a lamp-post, took not the +slightest notice of Mr Verloc. With a turn to the left Mr +Verloc pursued his way along a narrow street by the side of a +yellow wall which, for some inscrutable reason, had No. 1 Chesham +Square written on it in black letters. Chesham Square was +at least sixty yards away, and Mr Verloc, cosmopolitan enough not +to be deceived by London’s topographical mysteries, held on +steadily, without a sign of surprise or indignation. At +last, with business-like persistency, he reached the Square, and +made diagonally for the number 10. This belonged to an +imposing carriage gate in a high, clean wall between two houses, +of which one rationally enough bore the number 9 and the other +was numbered 37; but the fact that this last belonged to Porthill +Street, a street well known in the neighbourhood, was proclaimed +by an inscription placed above the ground-floor windows by +whatever highly efficient authority is charged with the duty of +keeping track of London’s strayed houses. Why powers +are not asked of Parliament (a short act would do) for compelling +those edifices to return where they belong is one of the +mysteries of municipal administration. Mr Verloc did not +trouble his head about it, his mission in life being the +protection of the social mechanism, not its perfectionment or +even its criticism.</p> + +<p>It was so early that the porter of the Embassy issued +hurriedly out of his lodge still struggling with the left sleeve +of his livery coat. His waistcoat was red, and he wore +knee-breeches, but his aspect was flustered. Mr Verloc, +aware of the rush on his flank, drove it off by simply holding +out an envelope stamped with the arms of the Embassy, and passed +on. He produced the same talisman also to the footman who +opened the door, and stood back to let him enter the hall.</p> + +<p>A clear fire burned in a tall fireplace, and an elderly man +standing with his back to it, in evening dress and with a chain +round his neck, glanced up from the newspaper he was holding +spread out in both hands before his calm and severe face. +He didn’t move; but another lackey, in brown trousers and +claw-hammer coat edged with thin yellow cord, approaching Mr +Verloc listened to the murmur of his name, and turning round on +his heel in silence, began to walk, without looking back +once. Mr Verloc, thus led along a ground-floor passage to +the left of the great carpeted staircase, was suddenly motioned +to enter a quite small room furnished with a heavy writing-table +and a few chairs. The servant shut the door, and Mr Verloc +remained alone. He did not take a seat. With his hat +and stick held in one hand he glanced about, passing his other +podgy hand over his uncovered sleek head.</p> + +<p>Another door opened noiselessly, and Mr Verloc immobilising +his glance in that direction saw at first only black clothes, the +bald top of a head, and a drooping dark grey whisker on each side +of a pair of wrinkled hands. The person who had entered was +holding a batch of papers before his eyes and walked up to the +table with a rather mincing step, turning the papers over the +while. Privy Councillor Wurmt, Chancelier +d’Ambassade, was rather short-sighted. This +meritorious official laying the papers on the table, disclosed a +face of pasty complexion and of melancholy ugliness surrounded by +a lot of fine, long dark grey hairs, barred heavily by thick and +bushy eyebrows. He put on a black-framed pince-nez upon a +blunt and shapeless nose, and seemed struck by Mr Verloc’s +appearance. Under the enormous eyebrows his weak eyes +blinked pathetically through the glasses.</p> + +<p>He made no sign of greeting; neither did Mr Verloc, who +certainly knew his place; but a subtle change about the general +outlines of his shoulders and back suggested a slight bending of +Mr Verloc’s spine under the vast surface of his +overcoat. The effect was of unobtrusive deference.</p> + +<p>“I have here some of your reports,” said the +bureaucrat in an unexpectedly soft and weary voice, and pressing +the tip of his forefinger on the papers with force. He +paused; and Mr Verloc, who had recognised his own handwriting +very well, waited in an almost breathless silence. +“We are not very satisfied with the attitude of the police +here,” the other continued, with every appearance of mental +fatigue.</p> + +<p>The shoulders of Mr Verloc, without actually moving, suggested +a shrug. And for the first time since he left his home that +morning his lips opened.</p> + +<p>“Every country has its police,” he said +philosophically. But as the official of the Embassy went on +blinking at him steadily he felt constrained to add: “Allow +me to observe that I have no means of action upon the police +here.”</p> + +<p>“What is desired,” said the man of papers, +“is the occurrence of something definite which should +stimulate their vigilance. That is within your +province—is it not so?”</p> + +<p>Mr Verloc made no answer except by a sigh, which escaped him +involuntarily, for instantly he tried to give his face a cheerful +expression. The official blinked doubtfully, as if affected +by the dim light of the room. He repeated vaguely.</p> + +<p>“The vigilance of the police—and the severity of +the magistrates. The general leniency of the judicial +procedure here, and the utter absence of all repressive measures, +are a scandal to Europe. What is wished for just now is the +accentuation of the unrest—of the fermentation which +undoubtedly exists—”</p> + +<p>“Undoubtedly, undoubtedly,” broke in Mr Verloc in +a deep deferential bass of an oratorical quality, so utterly +different from the tone in which he had spoken before that his +interlocutor remained profoundly surprised. “It +exists to a dangerous degree. My reports for the last +twelve months make it sufficiently clear.”</p> + +<p>“Your reports for the last twelve months,” State +Councillor Wurmt began in his gentle and dispassionate tone, +“have been read by me. I failed to discover why you +wrote them at all.”</p> + +<p>A sad silence reigned for a time. Mr Verloc seemed to +have swallowed his tongue, and the other gazed at the papers on +the table fixedly. At last he gave them a slight push.</p> + +<p>“The state of affairs you expose there is assumed to +exist as the first condition of your employment. What is +required at present is not writing, but the bringing to light of +a distinct, significant fact—I would almost say of an +alarming fact.”</p> + +<p>“I need not say that all my endeavours shall be directed +to that end,” Mr Verloc said, with convinced modulations in +his conversational husky tone. But the sense of being +blinked at watchfully behind the blind glitter of these +eye-glasses on the other side of the table disconcerted +him. He stopped short with a gesture of absolute +devotion. The useful, hard-working, if obscure member of +the Embassy had an air of being impressed by some newly-born +thought.</p> + +<p>“You are very corpulent,” he said.</p> + +<p>This observation, really of a psychological nature, and +advanced with the modest hesitation of an officeman more familiar +with ink and paper than with the requirements of active life, +stung Mr Verloc in the manner of a rude personal remark. He +stepped back a pace.</p> + +<p>“Eh? What were you pleased to say?” he +exclaimed, with husky resentment.</p> + +<p>The Chancelier d’Ambassade entrusted with the conduct of +this interview seemed to find it too much for him.</p> + +<p>“I think,” he said, “that you had better see +Mr Vladimir. Yes, decidedly I think you ought to see Mr +Vladimir. Be good enough to wait here,” he added, and +went out with mincing steps.</p> + +<p>At once Mr Verloc passed his hand over his hair. A +slight perspiration had broken out on his forehead. He let +the air escape from his pursed-up lips like a man blowing at a +spoonful of hot soup. But when the servant in brown +appeared at the door silently, Mr Verloc had not moved an inch +from the place he had occupied throughout the interview. He +had remained motionless, as if feeling himself surrounded by +pitfalls.</p> + +<p>He walked along a passage lighted by a lonely gas-jet, then up +a flight of winding stairs, and through a glazed and cheerful +corridor on the first floor. The footman threw open a door, +and stood aside. The feet of Mr Verloc felt a thick +carpet. The room was large, with three windows; and a young +man with a shaven, big face, sitting in a roomy arm-chair before +a vast mahogany writing-table, said in French to the Chancelier +d’Ambassade, who was going out with the papers in his +hand:</p> + +<p>“You are quite right, mon cher. He’s +fat—the animal.”</p> + +<p>Mr Vladimir, First Secretary, had a drawing-room reputation as +an agreeable and entertaining man. He was something of a +favourite in society. His wit consisted in discovering +droll connections between incongruous ideas; and when talking in +that strain he sat well forward of his seat, with his left hand +raised, as if exhibiting his funny demonstrations between the +thumb and forefinger, while his round and clean-shaven face wore +an expression of merry perplexity.</p> + +<p>But there was no trace of merriment or perplexity in the way +he looked at Mr Verloc. Lying far back in the deep +arm-chair, with squarely spread elbows, and throwing one leg over +a thick knee, he had with his smooth and rosy countenance the air +of a preternaturally thriving baby that will not stand nonsense +from anybody.</p> + +<p>“You understand French, I suppose?” he said.</p> + +<p>Mr Verloc stated huskily that he did. His whole vast +bulk had a forward inclination. He stood on the carpet in +the middle of the room, clutching his hat and stick in one hand; +the other hung lifelessly by his side. He muttered +unobtrusively somewhere deep down in his throat something about +having done his military service in the French artillery. +At once, with contemptuous perversity, Mr Vladimir changed the +language, and began to speak idiomatic English without the +slightest trace of a foreign accent.</p> + +<p>“Ah! Yes. Of course. Let’s +see. How much did you get for obtaining the design of the +improved breech-block of their new field-gun?”</p> + +<p>“Five years’ rigorous confinement in a +fortress,” Mr Verloc answered unexpectedly, but without any +sign of feeling.</p> + +<p>“You got off easily,” was Mr Vladimir’s +comment. “And, anyhow, it served you right for +letting yourself get caught. What made you go in for that +sort of thing—eh?”</p> + +<p>Mr Verloc’s husky conversational voice was heard +speaking of youth, of a fatal infatuation for an +unworthy—</p> + +<p>“Aha! Cherchez la femme,” Mr Vladimir +deigned to interrupt, unbending, but without affability; there +was, on the contrary, a touch of grimness in his +condescension. “How long have you been employed by +the Embassy here?” he asked.</p> + +<p>“Ever since the time of the late Baron +Stott-Wartenheim,” Mr Verloc answered in subdued tones, and +protruding his lips sadly, in sign of sorrow for the deceased +diplomat. The First Secretary observed this play of +physiognomy steadily.</p> + +<p>“Ah! ever since. Well! What have you got to +say for yourself?” he asked sharply.</p> + +<p>Mr Verloc answered with some surprise that he was not aware of +having anything special to say. He had been summoned by a +letter—And he plunged his hand busily into the side pocket +of his overcoat, but before the mocking, cynical watchfulness of +Mr Vladimir, concluded to leave it there.</p> + +<p>“Bah!” said that latter. “What do you +mean by getting out of condition like this? You +haven’t got even the physique of your profession. +You—a member of a starving proletariat—never! +You—a desperate socialist or anarchist—which is +it?”</p> + +<p>“Anarchist,” stated Mr Verloc in a deadened +tone.</p> + +<p>“Bosh!” went on Mr Vladimir, without raising his +voice. “You startled old Wurmt himself. You +wouldn’t deceive an idiot. They all are that +by-the-by, but you seem to me simply impossible. So you +began your connection with us by stealing the French gun +designs. And you got yourself caught. That must have +been very disagreeable to our Government. You don’t +seem to be very smart.”</p> + +<p>Mr Verloc tried to exculpate himself huskily.</p> + +<p>“As I’ve had occasion to observe before, a fatal +infatuation for an unworthy—”</p> + +<p>Mr Vladimir raised a large white, plump hand. “Ah, +yes. The unlucky attachment—of your youth. She +got hold of the money, and then sold you to the +police—eh?”</p> + +<p>The doleful change in Mr Verloc’s physiognomy, the +momentary drooping of his whole person, confessed that such was +the regrettable case. Mr Vladimir’s hand clasped the +ankle reposing on his knee. The sock was of dark blue +silk.</p> + +<p>“You see, that was not very clever of you. Perhaps +you are too susceptible.”</p> + +<p>Mr Verloc intimated in a throaty, veiled murmur that he was no +longer young.</p> + +<p>“Oh! That’s a failing which age does not +cure,” Mr Vladimir remarked, with sinister +familiarity. “But no! You are too fat for +that. You could not have come to look like this if you had +been at all susceptible. I’ll tell you what I think +is the matter: you are a lazy fellow. How long have you +been drawing pay from this Embassy?”</p> + +<p>“Eleven years,” was the answer, after a moment of +sulky hesitation. “I’ve been charged with +several missions to London while His Excellency Baron +Stott-Wartenheim was still Ambassador in Paris. Then by his +Excellency’s instructions I settled down in London. I +am English.”</p> + +<p>“You are! Are you? Eh?”</p> + +<p>“A natural-born British subject,” Mr Verloc said +stolidly. “But my father was French, and +so—”</p> + +<p>“Never mind explaining,” interrupted the +other. “I daresay you could have been legally a +Marshal of France and a Member of Parliament in England—and +then, indeed, you would have been of some use to our +Embassy.”</p> + +<p>This flight of fancy provoked something like a faint smile on +Mr Verloc’s face. Mr Vladimir retained an +imperturbable gravity.</p> + +<p>“But, as I’ve said, you are a lazy fellow; you +don’t use your opportunities. In the time of Baron +Stott-Wartenheim we had a lot of soft-headed people running this +Embassy. They caused fellows of your sort to form a false +conception of the nature of a secret service fund. It is my +business to correct this misapprehension by telling you what the +secret service is not. It is not a philanthropic +institution. I’ve had you called here on purpose to +tell you this.”</p> + +<p>Mr Vladimir observed the forced expression of bewilderment on +Verloc’s face, and smiled sarcastically.</p> + +<p>“I see that you understand me perfectly. I daresay +you are intelligent enough for your work. What we want now +is activity—activity.”</p> + +<p>On repeating this last word Mr Vladimir laid a long white +forefinger on the edge of the desk. Every trace of +huskiness disappeared from Verloc’s voice. The nape +of his gross neck became crimson above the velvet collar of his +overcoat. His lips quivered before they came widely +open.</p> + +<p>“If you’ll only be good enough to look up my +record,” he boomed out in his great, clear oratorical bass, +“you’ll see I gave a warning only three months ago, +on the occasion of the Grand Duke Romuald’s visit to Paris, +which was telegraphed from here to the French police, +and—”</p> + +<p>“Tut, tut!” broke out Mr Vladimir, with a frowning +grimace. “The French police had no use for your +warning. Don’t roar like this. What the devil +do you mean?”</p> + +<p>With a note of proud humility Mr Verloc apologised for +forgetting himself. His voice,—famous for years at +open-air meetings and at workmen’s assemblies in large +halls, had contributed, he said, to his reputation of a good and +trustworthy comrade. It was, therefore, a part of his +usefulness. It had inspired confidence in his +principles. “I was always put up to speak by the +leaders at a critical moment,” Mr Verloc declared, with +obvious satisfaction. There was no uproar above which he +could not make himself heard, he added; and suddenly he made a +demonstration.</p> + +<p>“Allow me,” he said. With lowered forehead, +without looking up, swiftly and ponderously he crossed the room +to one of the French windows. As if giving way to an +uncontrollable impulse, he opened it a little. Mr Vladimir, +jumping up amazed from the depths of the arm-chair, looked over +his shoulder; and below, across the courtyard of the Embassy, +well beyond the open gate, could be seen the broad back of a +policeman watching idly the gorgeous perambulator of a wealthy +baby being wheeled in state across the Square.</p> + +<p>“Constable!” said Mr Verloc, with no more effort +than if he were whispering; and Mr Vladimir burst into a laugh on +seeing the policeman spin round as if prodded by a sharp +instrument. Mr Verloc shut the window quietly, and returned +to the middle of the room.</p> + +<p>“With a voice like that,” he said, putting on the +husky conversational pedal, “I was naturally trusted. +And I knew what to say, too.”</p> + +<p>Mr Vladimir, arranging his cravat, observed him in the glass +over the mantelpiece.</p> + +<p>“I daresay you have the social revolutionary jargon by +heart well enough,” he said contemptuously. +“Vox et. . . You haven’t ever studied +Latin—have you?”</p> + +<p>“No,” growled Mr Verloc. “You did not +expect me to know it. I belong to the million. Who +knows Latin? Only a few hundred imbeciles who aren’t +fit to take care of themselves.”</p> + +<p>For some thirty seconds longer Mr Vladimir studied in the +mirror the fleshy profile, the gross bulk, of the man behind +him. And at the same time he had the advantage of seeing +his own face, clean-shaved and round, rosy about the gills, and +with the thin sensitive lips formed exactly for the utterance of +those delicate witticisms which had made him such a favourite in +the very highest society. Then he turned, and advanced into +the room with such determination that the very ends of his +quaintly old-fashioned bow necktie seemed to bristle with +unspeakable menaces. The movement was so swift and fierce +that Mr Verloc, casting an oblique glance, quailed inwardly.</p> + +<p>“Aha! You dare be impudent,” Mr Vladimir +began, with an amazingly guttural intonation not only utterly +un-English, but absolutely un-European, and startling even to Mr +Verloc’s experience of cosmopolitan slums. “You +dare! Well, I am going to speak plain English to you. +Voice won’t do. We have no use for your voice. +We don’t want a voice. We want facts—startling +facts—damn you,” he added, with a sort of ferocious +discretion, right into Mr Verloc’s face.</p> + +<p>“Don’t you try to come over me with your +Hyperborean manners,” Mr Verloc defended himself huskily, +looking at the carpet. At this his interlocutor, smiling +mockingly above the bristling bow of his necktie, switched the +conversation into French.</p> + +<p>“You give yourself for an ‘agent +provocateur.’ The proper business of an ‘agent +provocateur’ is to provoke. As far as I can judge +from your record kept here, you have done nothing to earn your +money for the last three years.”</p> + +<p>“Nothing!” exclaimed Verloc, stirring not a limb, +and not raising his eyes, but with the note of sincere feeling in +his tone. “I have several times prevented what might +have been—”</p> + +<p>“There is a proverb in this country which says +prevention is better than cure,” interrupted Mr Vladimir, +throwing himself into the arm-chair. “It is stupid in +a general way. There is no end to prevention. But it +is characteristic. They dislike finality in this +country. Don’t you be too English. And in this +particular instance, don’t be absurd. The evil is +already here. We don’t want prevention—we want +cure.”</p> + +<p>He paused, turned to the desk, and turning over some papers +lying there, spoke in a changed business-like tone, without +looking at Mr Verloc.</p> + +<p>“You know, of course, of the International Conference +assembled in Milan?”</p> + +<p>Mr Verloc intimated hoarsely that he was in the habit of +reading the daily papers. To a further question his answer +was that, of course, he understood what he read. At this Mr +Vladimir, smiling faintly at the documents he was still scanning +one after another, murmured “As long as it is not written +in Latin, I suppose.”</p> + +<p>“Or Chinese,” added Mr Verloc stolidly.</p> + +<p>“H’m. Some of your revolutionary +friends’ effusions are written in a <i>charabia</i> every +bit as incomprehensible as Chinese—” Mr +Vladimir let fall disdainfully a grey sheet of printed +matter. “What are all these leaflets headed F. P., +with a hammer, pen, and torch crossed? What does it mean, +this F. P.?” Mr Verloc approached the imposing +writing-table.</p> + +<p>“The Future of the Proletariat. It’s a +society,” he explained, standing ponderously by the side of +the arm-chair, “not anarchist in principle, but open to all +shades of revolutionary opinion.”</p> + +<p>“Are you in it?”</p> + +<p>“One of the Vice-Presidents,” Mr Verloc breathed +out heavily; and the First Secretary of the Embassy raised his +head to look at him.</p> + +<p>“Then you ought to be ashamed of yourself,” he +said incisively. “Isn’t your society capable of +anything else but printing this prophetic bosh in blunt type on +this filthy paper eh? Why don’t you do +something? Look here. I’ve this matter in hand +now, and I tell you plainly that you will have to earn your +money. The good old Stott-Wartenheim times are over. +No work, no pay.”</p> + +<p>Mr Verloc felt a queer sensation of faintness in his stout +legs. He stepped back one pace, and blew his nose +loudly.</p> + +<p>He was, in truth, startled and alarmed. The rusty London +sunshine struggling clear of the London mist shed a lukewarm +brightness into the First Secretary’s private room; and in +the silence Mr Verloc heard against a window-pane the faint +buzzing of a fly—his first fly of the year—heralding +better than any number of swallows the approach of spring. +The useless fussing of that tiny energetic organism affected +unpleasantly this big man threatened in his indolence.</p> + +<p>In the pause Mr Vladimir formulated in his mind a series of +disparaging remarks concerning Mr Verloc’s face and +figure. The fellow was unexpectedly vulgar, heavy, and +impudently unintelligent. He looked uncommonly like a +master plumber come to present his bill. The First +Secretary of the Embassy, from his occasional excursions into the +field of American humour, had formed a special notion of that +class of mechanic as the embodiment of fraudulent laziness and +incompetency.</p> + +<p>This was then the famous and trusty secret agent, so secret +that he was never designated otherwise but by the symbol [delta] +in the late Baron Stott-Wartenheim’s official, +semi-official, and confidential correspondence; the celebrated +agent [delta], whose warnings had the power to change the schemes +and the dates of royal, imperial, grand ducal journeys, and +sometimes caused them to be put off altogether! This +fellow! And Mr Vladimir indulged mentally in an enormous +and derisive fit of merriment, partly at his own astonishment, +which he judged naive, but mostly at the expense of the +universally regretted Baron Stott-Wartenheim. His late +Excellency, whom the august favour of his Imperial master had +imposed as Ambassador upon several reluctant Ministers of Foreign +Affairs, had enjoyed in his lifetime a fame for an owlish, +pessimistic gullibility. His Excellency had the social +revolution on the brain. He imagined himself to be a +diplomatist set apart by a special dispensation to watch the end +of diplomacy, and pretty nearly the end of the world, in a horrid +democratic upheaval. His prophetic and doleful despatches +had been for years the joke of Foreign Offices. He was said +to have exclaimed on his deathbed (visited by his Imperial friend +and master): “Unhappy Europe! Thou shalt perish by +the moral insanity of thy children!” He was fated to +be the victim of the first humbugging rascal that came along, +thought Mr Vladimir, smiling vaguely at Mr Verloc.</p> + +<p>“You ought to venerate the memory of Baron +Stott-Wartenheim,” he exclaimed suddenly.</p> + +<p>The lowered physiognomy of Mr Verloc expressed a sombre and +weary annoyance.</p> + +<p>“Permit me to observe to you,” he said, +“that I came here because I was summoned by a peremptory +letter. I have been here only twice before in the last +eleven years, and certainly never at eleven in the morning. +It isn’t very wise to call me up like this. There is +just a chance of being seen. And that would be no joke for +me.”</p> + +<p>Mr Vladimir shrugged his shoulders.</p> + +<p>“It would destroy my usefulness,” continued the +other hotly.</p> + +<p>“That’s your affair,” murmured Mr Vladimir, +with soft brutality. “When you cease to be useful you +shall cease to be employed. Yes. Right off. Cut +short. You shall—” Mr Vladimir, frowning, +paused, at a loss for a sufficiently idiomatic expression, and +instantly brightened up, with a grin of beautifully white +teeth. “You shall be chucked,” he brought out +ferociously.</p> + +<p>Once more Mr Verloc had to react with all the force of his +will against that sensation of faintness running down one’s +legs which once upon a time had inspired some poor devil with the +felicitous expression: “My heart went down into my +boots.” Mr Verloc, aware of the sensation, raised his +head bravely.</p> + +<p>Mr Vladimir bore the look of heavy inquiry with perfect +serenity.</p> + +<p>“What we want is to administer a tonic to the Conference +in Milan,” he said airily. “Its deliberations +upon international action for the suppression of political crime +don’t seem to get anywhere. England lags. This +country is absurd with its sentimental regard for individual +liberty. It’s intolerable to think that all your +friends have got only to come over to—”</p> + +<p>“In that way I have them all under my eye,” Mr +Verloc interrupted huskily.</p> + +<p>“It would be much more to the point to have them all +under lock and key. England must be brought into +line. The imbecile bourgeoisie of this country make +themselves the accomplices of the very people whose aim is to +drive them out of their houses to starve in ditches. And +they have the political power still, if they only had the sense +to use it for their preservation. I suppose you agree that +the middle classes are stupid?”</p> + +<p>Mr Verloc agreed hoarsely.</p> + +<p>“They are.”</p> + +<p>“They have no imagination. They are blinded by an +idiotic vanity. What they want just now is a jolly good +scare. This is the psychological moment to set your friends +to work. I have had you called here to develop to you my +idea.”</p> + +<p>And Mr Vladimir developed his idea from on high, with scorn +and condescension, displaying at the same time an amount of +ignorance as to the real aims, thoughts, and methods of the +revolutionary world which filled the silent Mr Verloc with inward +consternation. He confounded causes with effects more than +was excusable; the most distinguished propagandists with +impulsive bomb throwers; assumed organisation where in the nature +of things it could not exist; spoke of the social revolutionary +party one moment as of a perfectly disciplined army, where the +word of chiefs was supreme, and at another as if it had been the +loosest association of desperate brigands that ever camped in a +mountain gorge. Once Mr Verloc had opened his mouth for a +protest, but the raising of a shapely, large white hand arrested +him. Very soon he became too appalled to even try to +protest. He listened in a stillness of dread which +resembled the immobility of profound attention.</p> + +<p>“A series of outrages,” Mr Vladimir continued +calmly, “executed here in this country; not only +<i>planned</i> here—that would not do—they would not +mind. Your friends could set half the Continent on fire +without influencing the public opinion here in favour of a +universal repressive legislation. They will not look +outside their backyard here.”</p> + +<p>Mr Verloc cleared his throat, but his heart failed him, and he +said nothing.</p> + +<p>“These outrages need not be especially +sanguinary,” Mr Vladimir went on, as if delivering a +scientific lecture, “but they must be sufficiently +startling—effective. Let them be directed against +buildings, for instance. What is the fetish of the hour +that all the bourgeoisie recognise—eh, Mr +Verloc?”</p> + +<p>Mr Verloc opened his hands and shrugged his shoulders +slightly.</p> + +<p>“You are too lazy to think,” was Mr +Vladimir’s comment upon that gesture. “Pay +attention to what I say. The fetish of to-day is neither +royalty nor religion. Therefore the palace and the church +should be left alone. You understand what I mean, Mr +Verloc?”</p> + +<p>The dismay and the scorn of Mr Verloc found vent in an attempt +at levity.</p> + +<p>“Perfectly. But what of the Embassies? A +series of attacks on the various Embassies,” he began; but +he could not withstand the cold, watchful stare of the First +Secretary.</p> + +<p>“You can be facetious, I see,” the latter observed +carelessly. “That’s all right. It may +enliven your oratory at socialistic congresses. But this +room is no place for it. It would be infinitely safer for +you to follow carefully what I am saying. As you are being +called upon to furnish facts instead of cock-and-bull stories, +you had better try to make your profit off what I am taking the +trouble to explain to you. The sacrosanct fetish of to-day +is science. Why don’t you get some of your friends to +go for that wooden-faced panjandrum—eh? Is it not +part of these institutions which must be swept away before the F. +P. comes along?”</p> + +<p>Mr Verloc said nothing. He was afraid to open his lips +lest a groan should escape him.</p> + +<p>“This is what you should try for. An attempt upon +a crowned head or on a president is sensational enough in a way, +but not so much as it used to be. It has entered into the +general conception of the existence of all chiefs of state. +It’s almost conventional—especially since so many +presidents have been assassinated. Now let us take an +outrage upon—say a church. Horrible enough at first +sight, no doubt, and yet not so effective as a person of an +ordinary mind might think. No matter how revolutionary and +anarchist in inception, there would be fools enough to give such +an outrage the character of a religious manifestation. And +that would detract from the especial alarming significance we +wish to give to the act. A murderous attempt on a +restaurant or a theatre would suffer in the same way from the +suggestion of non-political passion: the exasperation of a hungry +man, an act of social revenge. All this is used up; it is +no longer instructive as an object lesson in revolutionary +anarchism. Every newspaper has ready-made phrases to +explain such manifestations away. I am about to give you +the philosophy of bomb throwing from my point of view; from the +point of view you pretend to have been serving for the last +eleven years. I will try not to talk above your head. +The sensibilities of the class you are attacking are soon +blunted. Property seems to them an indestructible +thing. You can’t count upon their emotions either of +pity or fear for very long. A bomb outrage to have any +influence on public opinion now must go beyond the intention of +vengeance or terrorism. It must be purely +destructive. It must be that, and only that, beyond the +faintest suspicion of any other object. You anarchists +should make it clear that you are perfectly determined to make a +clean sweep of the whole social creation. But how to get +that appallingly absurd notion into the heads of the middle +classes so that there should be no mistake? That’s +the question. By directing your blows at something outside +the ordinary passions of humanity is the answer. Of course, +there is art. A bomb in the National Gallery would make +some noise. But it would not be serious enough. Art +has never been their fetish. It’s like breaking a few +back windows in a man’s house; whereas, if you want to make +him really sit up, you must try at least to raise the roof. +There would be some screaming of course, but from whom? +Artists—art critics and such like—people of no +account. Nobody minds what they say. But there is +learning—science. Any imbecile that has got an income +believes in that. He does not know why, but he believes it +matters somehow. It is the sacrosanct fetish. All the +damned professors are radicals at heart. Let them know that +their great panjandrum has got to go too, to make room for the +Future of the Proletariat. A howl from all these +intellectual idiots is bound to help forward the labours of the +Milan Conference. They will be writing to the papers. +Their indignation would be above suspicion, no material interests +being openly at stake, and it will alarm every selfishness of the +class which should be impressed. They believe that in some +mysterious way science is at the source of their material +prosperity. They do. And the absurd ferocity of such +a demonstration will affect them more profoundly than the +mangling of a whole street—or theatre—full of their +own kind. To that last they can always say: ‘Oh! +it’s mere class hate.’ But what is one to say +to an act of destructive ferocity so absurd as to be +incomprehensible, inexplicable, almost unthinkable; in fact, +mad? Madness alone is truly terrifying, inasmuch as you +cannot placate it either by threats, persuasion, or bribes. +Moreover, I am a civilised man. I would never dream of +directing you to organise a mere butchery, even if I expected the +best results from it. But I wouldn’t expect from a +butchery the result I want. Murder is always with us. +It is almost an institution. The demonstration must be +against learning—science. But not every science will +do. The attack must have all the shocking senselessness of +gratuitous blasphemy. Since bombs are your means of +expression, it would be really telling if one could throw a bomb +into pure mathematics. But that is impossible. I have +been trying to educate you; I have expounded to you the higher +philosophy of your usefulness, and suggested to you some +serviceable arguments. The practical application of my +teaching interests <i>you</i> mostly. But from the moment I +have undertaken to interview you I have also given some attention +to the practical aspect of the question. What do you think +of having a go at astronomy?”</p> + +<p>For sometime already Mr Verloc’s immobility by the side +of the arm-chair resembled a state of collapsed coma—a sort +of passive insensibility interrupted by slight convulsive starts, +such as may be observed in the domestic dog having a nightmare on +the hearthrug. And it was in an uneasy doglike growl that +he repeated the word:</p> + +<p>“Astronomy.”</p> + +<p>He had not recovered thoroughly as yet from that state of +bewilderment brought about by the effort to follow Mr +Vladimir’s rapid incisive utterance. It had overcome +his power of assimilation. It had made him angry. +This anger was complicated by incredulity. And suddenly it +dawned upon him that all this was an elaborate joke. Mr +Vladimir exhibited his white teeth in a smile, with dimples on +his round, full face posed with a complacent inclination above +the bristling bow of his neck-tie. The favourite of +intelligent society women had assumed his drawing-room attitude +accompanying the delivery of delicate witticisms. Sitting +well forward, his white hand upraised, he seemed to hold +delicately between his thumb and forefinger the subtlety of his +suggestion.</p> + +<p>“There could be nothing better. Such an outrage +combines the greatest possible regard for humanity with the most +alarming display of ferocious imbecility. I defy the +ingenuity of journalists to persuade their public that any given +member of the proletariat can have a personal grievance against +astronomy. Starvation itself could hardly be dragged in +there—eh? And there are other advantages. The +whole civilised world has heard of Greenwich. The very +boot-blacks in the basement of Charing Cross Station know +something of it. See?”</p> + +<p>The features of Mr Vladimir, so well known in the best society +by their humorous urbanity, beamed with cynical +self-satisfaction, which would have astonished the intelligent +women his wit entertained so exquisitely. +“Yes,” he continued, with a contemptuous smile, +“the blowing up of the first meridian is bound to raise a +howl of execration.”</p> + +<p>“A difficult business,” Mr Verloc mumbled, feeling +that this was the only safe thing to say.</p> + +<p>“What is the matter? Haven’t you the whole +gang under your hand? The very pick of the basket? +That old terrorist Yundt is here. I see him walking about +Piccadilly in his green havelock almost every day. And +Michaelis, the ticket-of-leave apostle—you don’t mean +to say you don’t know where he is? Because if you +don’t, I can tell you,” Mr Vladimir went on +menacingly. “If you imagine that you are the only one +on the secret fund list, you are mistaken.”</p> + +<p>This perfectly gratuitous suggestion caused Mr Verloc to +shuffle his feet slightly.</p> + +<p>“And the whole Lausanne lot—eh? +Haven’t they been flocking over here at the first hint of +the Milan Conference? This is an absurd country.”</p> + +<p>“It will cost money,” Mr Verloc said, by a sort of +instinct.</p> + +<p>“That cock won’t fight,” Mr Vladimir +retorted, with an amazingly genuine English accent. +“You’ll get your screw every month, and no more till +something happens. And if nothing happens very soon you +won’t get even that. What’s your ostensible +occupation? What are you supposed to live by?”</p> + +<p>“I keep a shop,” answered Mr Verloc.</p> + +<p>“A shop! What sort of shop?”</p> + +<p>“Stationery, newspapers. My wife—”</p> + +<p>“Your what?” interrupted Mr Vladimir in his +guttural Central Asian tones.</p> + +<p>“My wife.” Mr Verloc raised his husky voice +slightly. “I am married.”</p> + +<p>“That be damned for a yarn,” exclaimed the other +in unfeigned astonishment. “Married! And you a +professed anarchist, too! What is this confounded +nonsense? But I suppose it’s merely a manner of +speaking. Anarchists don’t marry. It’s +well known. They can’t. It would be +apostasy.”</p> + +<p>“My wife isn’t one,” Mr Verloc mumbled +sulkily. “Moreover, it’s no concern of +yours.”</p> + +<p>“Oh yes, it is,” snapped Mr Vladimir. +“I am beginning to be convinced that you are not at all the +man for the work you’ve been employed on. Why, you +must have discredited yourself completely in your own world by +your marriage. Couldn’t you have managed +without? This is your virtuous attachment—eh? +What with one sort of attachment and another you are doing away +with your usefulness.”</p> + +<p>Mr Verloc, puffing out his cheeks, let the air escape +violently, and that was all. He had armed himself with +patience. It was not to be tried much longer. The +First Secretary became suddenly very curt, detached, final.</p> + +<p>“You may go now,” he said. “A dynamite +outrage must be provoked. I give you a month. The +sittings of the Conference are suspended. Before it +reassembles again something must have happened here, or your +connection with us ceases.”</p> + +<p>He changed the note once more with an unprincipled +versatility.</p> + +<p>“Think over my philosophy, +Mr—Mr—Verloc,” he said, with a sort of chaffing +condescension, waving his hand towards the door. “Go +for the first meridian. You don’t know the middle +classes as well as I do. Their sensibilities are +jaded. The first meridian. Nothing better, and +nothing easier, I should think.”</p> + +<p>He had got up, and with his thin sensitive lips twitching +humorously, watched in the glass over the mantelpiece Mr Verloc +backing out of the room heavily, hat and stick in hand. The +door closed.</p> + +<p>The footman in trousers, appearing suddenly in the corridor, +let Mr Verloc another way out and through a small door in the +corner of the courtyard. The porter standing at the gate +ignored his exit completely; and Mr Verloc retraced the path of +his morning’s pilgrimage as if in a dream—an angry +dream. This detachment from the material world was so +complete that, though the mortal envelope of Mr Verloc had not +hastened unduly along the streets, that part of him to which it +would be unwarrantably rude to refuse immortality, found itself +at the shop door all at once, as if borne from west to east on +the wings of a great wind. He walked straight behind the +counter, and sat down on a wooden chair that stood there. +No one appeared to disturb his solitude. Stevie, put into a +green baize apron, was now sweeping and dusting upstairs, intent +and conscientious, as though he were playing at it; and Mrs +Verloc, warned in the kitchen by the clatter of the cracked bell, +had merely come to the glazed door of the parlour, and putting +the curtain aside a little, had peered into the dim shop. +Seeing her husband sitting there shadowy and bulky, with his hat +tilted far back on his head, she had at once returned to her +stove. An hour or more later she took the green baize apron +off her brother Stevie, and instructed him to wash his hands and +face in the peremptory tone she had used in that connection for +fifteen years or so—ever since she had, in fact, ceased to +attend to the boy’s hands and face herself. She +spared presently a glance away from her dishing-up for the +inspection of that face and those hands which Stevie, approaching +the kitchen table, offered for her approval with an air of +self-assurance hiding a perpetual residue of anxiety. +Formerly the anger of the father was the supremely effective +sanction of these rites, but Mr Verloc’s placidity in +domestic life would have made all mention of anger incredible +even to poor Stevie’s nervousness. The theory was +that Mr Verloc would have been inexpressibly pained and shocked +by any deficiency of cleanliness at meal times. Winnie +after the death of her father found considerable consolation in +the feeling that she need no longer tremble for poor +Stevie. She could not bear to see the boy hurt. It +maddened her. As a little girl she had often faced with +blazing eyes the irascible licensed victualler in defence of her +brother. Nothing now in Mrs Verloc’s appearance could +lead one to suppose that she was capable of a passionate +demonstration.</p> + +<p>She finished her dishing-up. The table was laid in the +parlour. Going to the foot of the stairs, she screamed out +“Mother!” Then opening the glazed door leading +to the shop, she said quietly “Adolf!” Mr +Verloc had not changed his position; he had not apparently +stirred a limb for an hour and a half. He got up heavily, +and came to his dinner in his overcoat and with his hat on, +without uttering a word. His silence in itself had nothing +startlingly unusual in this household, hidden in the shades of +the sordid street seldom touched by the sun, behind the dim shop +with its wares of disreputable rubbish. Only that day Mr +Verloc’s taciturnity was so obviously thoughtful that the +two women were impressed by it. They sat silent themselves, +keeping a watchful eye on poor Stevie, lest he should break out +into one of his fits of loquacity. He faced Mr Verloc +across the table, and remained very good and quiet, staring +vacantly. The endeavour to keep him from making himself +objectionable in any way to the master of the house put no +inconsiderable anxiety into these two women’s lives. +“That boy,” as they alluded to him softly between +themselves, had been a source of that sort of anxiety almost from +the very day of his birth. The late licensed +victualler’s humiliation at having such a very peculiar boy +for a son manifested itself by a propensity to brutal treatment; +for he was a person of fine sensibilities, and his sufferings as +a man and a father were perfectly genuine. Afterwards +Stevie had to be kept from making himself a nuisance to the +single gentlemen lodgers, who are themselves a queer lot, and are +easily aggrieved. And there was always the anxiety of his +mere existence to face. Visions of a workhouse infirmary +for her child had haunted the old woman in the basement +breakfast-room of the decayed Belgravian house. “If +you had not found such a good husband, my dear,” she used +to say to her daughter, “I don’t know what would have +become of that poor boy.”</p> + +<p>Mr Verloc extended as much recognition to Stevie as a man not +particularly fond of animals may give to his wife’s beloved +cat; and this recognition, benevolent and perfunctory, was +essentially of the same quality. Both women admitted to +themselves that not much more could be reasonably expected. +It was enough to earn for Mr Verloc the old woman’s +reverential gratitude. In the early days, made sceptical by +the trials of friendless life, she used sometimes to ask +anxiously: “You don’t think, my dear, that Mr Verloc +is getting tired of seeing Stevie about?” To this +Winnie replied habitually by a slight toss of her head. +Once, however, she retorted, with a rather grim pertness: +“He’ll have to get tired of me first.” A +long silence ensued. The mother, with her feet propped up +on a stool, seemed to be trying to get to the bottom of that +answer, whose feminine profundity had struck her all of a +heap. She had never really understood why Winnie had +married Mr Verloc. It was very sensible of her, and +evidently had turned out for the best, but her girl might have +naturally hoped to find somebody of a more suitable age. +There had been a steady young fellow, only son of a butcher in +the next street, helping his father in business, with whom Winnie +had been walking out with obvious gusto. He was dependent +on his father, it is true; but the business was good, and his +prospects excellent. He took her girl to the theatre on +several evenings. Then just as she began to dread to hear +of their engagement (for what could she have done with that big +house alone, with Stevie on her hands), that romance came to an +abrupt end, and Winnie went about looking very dull. But Mr +Verloc, turning up providentially to occupy the first-floor front +bedroom, there had been no more question of the young +butcher. It was clearly providential.</p> + +<h2>CHAPTER III</h2> + +<p>“ . . . All idealisation makes life poorer. To +beautify it is to take away its character of complexity—it +is to destroy it. Leave that to the moralists, my +boy. History is made by men, but they do not make it in +their heads. The ideas that are born in their consciousness +play an insignificant part in the march of events. History +is dominated and determined by the tool and the +production—by the force of economic conditions. +Capitalism has made socialism, and the laws made by the +capitalism for the protection of property are responsible for +anarchism. No one can tell what form the social +organisation may take in the future. Then why indulge in +prophetic phantasies? At best they can only interpret the +mind of the prophet, and can have no objective value. Leave +that pastime to the moralists, my boy.”</p> + +<p>Michaelis, the ticket-of-leave apostle, was speaking in an +even voice, a voice that wheezed as if deadened and oppressed by +the layer of fat on his chest. He had come out of a highly +hygienic prison round like a tub, with an enormous stomach and +distended cheeks of a pale, semi-transparent complexion, as +though for fifteen years the servants of an outraged society had +made a point of stuffing him with fattening foods in a damp and +lightless cellar. And ever since he had never managed to +get his weight down as much as an ounce.</p> + +<p>It was said that for three seasons running a very wealthy old +lady had sent him for a cure to Marienbad—where he was +about to share the public curiosity once with a crowned +head—but the police on that occasion ordered him to leave +within twelve hours. His martyrdom was continued by +forbidding him all access to the healing waters. But he was +resigned now.</p> + +<p>With his elbow presenting no appearance of a joint, but more +like a bend in a dummy’s limb, thrown over the back of a +chair, he leaned forward slightly over his short and enormous +thighs to spit into the grate.</p> + +<p>“Yes! I had the time to think things out a +little,” he added without emphasis. “Society +has given me plenty of time for meditation.”</p> + +<p>On the other side of the fireplace, in the horse-hair +arm-chair where Mrs Verloc’s mother was generally +privileged to sit, Karl Yundt giggled grimly, with a faint black +grimace of a toothless mouth. The terrorist, as he called +himself, was old and bald, with a narrow, snow-white wisp of a +goatee hanging limply from his chin. An extraordinary +expression of underhand malevolence survived in his extinguished +eyes. When he rose painfully the thrusting forward of a +skinny groping hand deformed by gouty swellings suggested the +effort of a moribund murderer summoning all his remaining +strength for a last stab. He leaned on a thick stick, which +trembled under his other hand.</p> + +<p>“I have always dreamed,” he mouthed fiercely, +“of a band of men absolute in their resolve to discard all +scruples in the choice of means, strong enough to give themselves +frankly the name of destroyers, and free from the taint of that +resigned pessimism which rots the world. No pity for +anything on earth, including themselves, and death enlisted for +good and all in the service of humanity—that’s what I +would have liked to see.”</p> + +<p>His little bald head quivered, imparting a comical vibration +to the wisp of white goatee. His enunciation would have +been almost totally unintelligible to a stranger. His +worn-out passion, resembling in its impotent fierceness the +excitement of a senile sensualist, was badly served by a dried +throat and toothless gums which seemed to catch the tip of his +tongue. Mr Verloc, established in the corner of the sofa at +the other end of the room, emitted two hearty grunts of +assent.</p> + +<p>The old terrorist turned slowly his head on his skinny neck +from side to side.</p> + +<p>“And I could never get as many as three such men +together. So much for your rotten pessimism,” he +snarled at Michaelis, who uncrossed his thick legs, similar to +bolsters, and slid his feet abruptly under his chair in sign of +exasperation.</p> + +<p>He a pessimist! Preposterous! He cried out that +the charge was outrageous. He was so far from pessimism +that he saw already the end of all private property coming along +logically, unavoidably, by the mere development of its inherent +viciousness. The possessors of property had not only to +face the awakened proletariat, but they had also to fight amongst +themselves. Yes. Struggle, warfare, was the condition +of private ownership. It was fatal. Ah! he did not +depend upon emotional excitement to keep up his belief, no +declamations, no anger, no visions of blood-red flags waving, or +metaphorical lurid suns of vengeance rising above the horizon of +a doomed society. Not he! Cold reason, he boasted, +was the basis of his optimism. Yes, optimism—</p> + +<p>His laborious wheezing stopped, then, after a gasp or two, he +added:</p> + +<p>“Don’t you think that, if I had not been the +optimist I am, I could not have found in fifteen years some means +to cut my throat? And, in the last instance, there were +always the walls of my cell to dash my head against.”</p> + +<p>The shortness of breath took all fire, all animation out of +his voice; his great, pale cheeks hung like filled pouches, +motionless, without a quiver; but in his blue eyes, narrowed as +if peering, there was the same look of confident shrewdness, a +little crazy in its fixity, they must have had while the +indomitable optimist sat thinking at night in his cell. +Before him, Karl Yundt remained standing, one wing of his faded +greenish havelock thrown back cavalierly over his shoulder. +Seated in front of the fireplace, Comrade Ossipon, ex-medical +student, the principal writer of the F. P. leaflets, stretched +out his robust legs, keeping the soles of his boots turned up to +the glow in the grate. A bush of crinkly yellow hair topped +his red, freckled face, with a flattened nose and prominent mouth +cast in the rough mould of the negro type. His +almond-shaped eyes leered languidly over the high +cheek-bones. He wore a grey flannel shirt, the loose ends +of a black silk tie hung down the buttoned breast of his serge +coat; and his head resting on the back of his chair, his throat +largely exposed, he raised to his lips a cigarette in a long +wooden tube, puffing jets of smoke straight up at the +ceiling.</p> + +<p>Michaelis pursued his idea—<i>the</i> idea of his +solitary reclusion—the thought vouchsafed to his captivity +and growing like a faith revealed in visions. He talked to +himself, indifferent to the sympathy or hostility of his hearers, +indifferent indeed to their presence, from the habit he had +acquired of thinking aloud hopefully in the solitude of the four +whitewashed walls of his cell, in the sepulchral silence of the +great blind pile of bricks near a river, sinister and ugly like a +colossal mortuary for the socially drowned.</p> + +<p>He was no good in discussion, not because any amount of +argument could shake his faith, but because the mere fact of +hearing another voice disconcerted him painfully, confusing his +thoughts at once—these thoughts that for so many years, in +a mental solitude more barren than a waterless desert, no living +voice had ever combatted, commented, or approved.</p> + +<p>No one interrupted him now, and he made again the confession +of his faith, mastering him irresistible and complete like an act +of grace: the secret of fate discovered in the material side of +life; the economic condition of the world responsible for the +past and shaping the future; the source of all history, of all +ideas, guiding the mental development of mankind and the very +impulses of their passion—</p> + +<p>A harsh laugh from Comrade Ossipon cut the tirade dead short +in a sudden faltering of the tongue and a bewildered unsteadiness +of the apostle’s mildly exalted eyes. He closed them +slowly for a moment, as if to collect his routed thoughts. +A silence fell; but what with the two gas-jets over the table and +the glowing grate the little parlour behind Mr Verloc’s +shop had become frightfully hot. Mr Verloc, getting off the +sofa with ponderous reluctance, opened the door leading into the +kitchen to get more air, and thus disclosed the innocent Stevie, +seated very good and quiet at a deal table, drawing circles, +circles, circles; innumerable circles, concentric, eccentric; a +coruscating whirl of circles that by their tangled multitude of +repeated curves, uniformity of form, and confusion of +intersecting lines suggested a rendering of cosmic chaos, the +symbolism of a mad art attempting the inconceivable. The +artist never turned his head; and in all his soul’s +application to the task his back quivered, his thin neck, sunk +into a deep hollow at the base of the skull, seemed ready to +snap.</p> + +<p>Mr Verloc, after a grunt of disapproving surprise, returned to +the sofa. Alexander Ossipon got up, tall in his threadbare +blue serge suit under the low ceiling, shook off the stiffness of +long immobility, and strolled away into the kitchen (down two +steps) to look over Stevie’s shoulder. He came back, +pronouncing oracularly: “Very good. Very +characteristic, perfectly typical.”</p> + +<p>“What’s very good?” grunted inquiringly Mr +Verloc, settled again in the corner of the sofa. The other +explained his meaning negligently, with a shade of condescension +and a toss of his head towards the kitchen:</p> + +<p>“Typical of this form of degeneracy—these +drawings, I mean.”</p> + +<p>“You would call that lad a degenerate, would you?” +mumbled Mr Verloc.</p> + +<p>Comrade Alexander Ossipon—nicknamed the Doctor, +ex-medical student without a degree; afterwards wandering +lecturer to working-men’s associations upon the socialistic +aspects of hygiene; author of a popular quasi-medical study (in +the form of a cheap pamphlet seized promptly by the police) +entitled “The Corroding Vices of the Middle Classes”; +special delegate of the more or less mysterious Red Committee, +together with Karl Yundt and Michaelis for the work of literary +propaganda—turned upon the obscure familiar of at least two +Embassies that glance of insufferable, hopelessly dense +sufficiency which nothing but the frequentation of science can +give to the dulness of common mortals.</p> + +<p>“That’s what he may be called +scientifically. Very good type too, altogether, of that +sort of degenerate. It’s enough to glance at the +lobes of his ears. If you read Lombroso—”</p> + +<p>Mr Verloc, moody and spread largely on the sofa, continued to +look down the row of his waistcoat buttons; but his cheeks became +tinged by a faint blush. Of late even the merest derivative +of the word science (a term in itself inoffensive and of +indefinite meaning) had the curious power of evoking a definitely +offensive mental vision of Mr Vladimir, in his body as he lived, +with an almost supernatural clearness. And this phenomenon, +deserving justly to be classed amongst the marvels of science, +induced in Mr Verloc an emotional state of dread and exasperation +tending to express itself in violent swearing. But he said +nothing. It was Karl Yundt who was heard, implacable to his +last breath.</p> + +<p>“Lombroso is an ass.”</p> + +<p>Comrade Ossipon met the shock of this blasphemy by an awful, +vacant stare. And the other, his extinguished eyes without +gleams blackening the deep shadows under the great, bony +forehead, mumbled, catching the tip of his tongue between his +lips at every second word as though he were chewing it +angrily:</p> + +<p>“Did you ever see such an idiot? For him the +criminal is the prisoner. Simple, is it not? What +about those who shut him up there—forced him in +there? Exactly. Forced him in there. And what +is crime? Does he know that, this imbecile who has made his +way in this world of gorged fools by looking at the ears and +teeth of a lot of poor, luckless devils? Teeth and ears +mark the criminal? Do they? And what about the law +that marks him still better—the pretty branding instrument +invented by the overfed to protect themselves against the +hungry? Red-hot applications on their vile +skins—hey? Can’t you smell and hear from here +the thick hide of the people burn and sizzle? That’s +how criminals are made for your Lombrosos to write their silly +stuff about.”</p> + +<p>The knob of his stick and his legs shook together with +passion, whilst the trunk, draped in the wings of the havelock, +preserved his historic attitude of defiance. He seemed to +sniff the tainted air of social cruelty, to strain his ear for +its atrocious sounds. There was an extraordinary force of +suggestion in this posturing. The all but moribund veteran +of dynamite wars had been a great actor in his time—actor +on platforms, in secret assemblies, in private interviews. +The famous terrorist had never in his life raised personally as +much as his little finger against the social edifice. He +was no man of action; he was not even an orator of torrential +eloquence, sweeping the masses along in the rushing noise and +foam of a great enthusiasm. With a more subtle intention, +he took the part of an insolent and venomous evoker of sinister +impulses which lurk in the blind envy and exasperated vanity of +ignorance, in the suffering and misery of poverty, in all the +hopeful and noble illusions of righteous anger, pity, and +revolt. The shadow of his evil gift clung to him yet like +the smell of a deadly drug in an old vial of poison, emptied now, +useless, ready to be thrown away upon the rubbish-heap of things +that had served their time.</p> + +<p>Michaelis, the ticket-of-leave apostle, smiled vaguely with +his glued lips; his pasty moon face drooped under the weight of +melancholy assent. He had been a prisoner himself. +His own skin had sizzled under the red-hot brand, he murmured +softly. But Comrade Ossipon, nicknamed the Doctor, had got +over the shock by that time.</p> + +<p>“You don’t understand,” he began +disdainfully, but stopped short, intimidated by the dead +blackness of the cavernous eyes in the face turned slowly towards +him with a blind stare, as if guided only by the sound. He +gave the discussion up, with a slight shrug of the shoulders.</p> + +<p>Stevie, accustomed to move about disregarded, had got up from +the kitchen table, carrying off his drawing to bed with +him. He had reached the parlour door in time to receive in +full the shock of Karl Yundt’s eloquent imagery. The +sheet of paper covered with circles dropped out of his fingers, +and he remained staring at the old terrorist, as if rooted +suddenly to the spot by his morbid horror and dread of physical +pain. Stevie knew very well that hot iron applied to +one’s skin hurt very much. His scared eyes blazed +with indignation: it would hurt terribly. His mouth dropped +open.</p> + +<p>Michaelis by staring unwinkingly at the fire had regained that +sentiment of isolation necessary for the continuity of his +thought. His optimism had begun to flow from his +lips. He saw Capitalism doomed in its cradle, born with the +poison of the principle of competition in its system. The +great capitalists devouring the little capitalists, concentrating +the power and the tools of production in great masses, perfecting +industrial processes, and in the madness of self-aggrandisement +only preparing, organising, enriching, making ready the lawful +inheritance of the suffering proletariat. Michaelis +pronounced the great word “Patience”—and his +clear blue glance, raised to the low ceiling of Mr Verloc’s +parlour, had a character of seraphic trustfulness. In the +doorway Stevie, calmed, seemed sunk in hebetude.</p> + +<p>Comrade Ossipon’s face twitched with exasperation.</p> + +<p>“Then it’s no use doing anything—no use +whatever.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t say that,” protested Michaelis +gently. His vision of truth had grown so intense that the +sound of a strange voice failed to rout it this time. He +continued to look down at the red coals. Preparation for +the future was necessary, and he was willing to admit that the +great change would perhaps come in the upheaval of a +revolution. But he argued that revolutionary propaganda was +a delicate work of high conscience. It was the education of +the masters of the world. It should be as careful as the +education given to kings. He would have it advance its +tenets cautiously, even timidly, in our ignorance of the effect +that may be produced by any given economic change upon the +happiness, the morals, the intellect, the history of +mankind. For history is made with tools, not with ideas; +and everything is changed by economic conditions—art, +philosophy, love, virtue—truth itself!</p> + +<p>The coals in the grate settled down with a slight crash; and +Michaelis, the hermit of visions in the desert of a penitentiary, +got up impetuously. Round like a distended balloon, he +opened his short, thick arms, as if in a pathetically hopeless +attempt to embrace and hug to his breast a self-regenerated +universe. He gasped with ardour.</p> + +<p>“The future is as certain as the past—slavery, +feudalism, individualism, collectivism. This is the +statement of a law, not an empty prophecy.”</p> + +<p>The disdainful pout of Comrade Ossipon’s thick lips +accentuated the negro type of his face.</p> + +<p>“Nonsense,” he said calmly enough. +“There is no law and no certainty. The teaching +propaganda be hanged. What the people knows does not +matter, were its knowledge ever so accurate. The only thing +that matters to us is the emotional state of the masses. +Without emotion there is no action.”</p> + +<p>He paused, then added with modest firmness:</p> + +<p>“I am speaking now to you +scientifically—scientifically—Eh? What did you +say, Verloc?”</p> + +<p>“Nothing,” growled from the sofa Mr Verloc, who, +provoked by the abhorrent sound, had merely muttered a +“Damn.”</p> + +<p>The venomous spluttering of the old terrorist without teeth +was heard.</p> + +<p>“Do you know how I would call the nature of the present +economic conditions? I would call it cannibalistic. +That’s what it is! They are nourishing their greed on +the quivering flesh and the warm blood of the +people—nothing else.”</p> + +<p>Stevie swallowed the terrifying statement with an audible +gulp, and at once, as though it had been swift poison, sank +limply in a sitting posture on the steps of the kitchen door.</p> + +<p>Michaelis gave no sign of having heard anything. His +lips seemed glued together for good; not a quiver passed over his +heavy cheeks. With troubled eyes he looked for his round, +hard hat, and put it on his round head. His round and obese +body seemed to float low between the chairs under the sharp elbow +of Karl Yundt. The old terrorist, raising an uncertain and +clawlike hand, gave a swaggering tilt to a black felt sombrero +shading the hollows and ridges of his wasted face. He got +in motion slowly, striking the floor with his stick at every +step. It was rather an affair to get him out of the house +because, now and then, he would stop, as if to think, and did not +offer to move again till impelled forward by Michaelis. The +gentle apostle grasped his arm with brotherly care; and behind +them, his hands in his pockets, the robust Ossipon yawned +vaguely. A blue cap with a patent leather peak set well at +the back of his yellow bush of hair gave him the aspect of a +Norwegian sailor bored with the world after a thundering +spree. Mr Verloc saw his guests off the premises, attending +them bareheaded, his heavy overcoat hanging open, his eyes on the +ground.</p> + +<p>He closed the door behind their backs with restrained +violence, turned the key, shot the bolt. He was not +satisfied with his friends. In the light of Mr +Vladimir’s philosophy of bomb throwing they appeared +hopelessly futile. The part of Mr Verloc in revolutionary +politics having been to observe, he could not all at once, either +in his own home or in larger assemblies, take the initiative of +action. He had to be cautious. Moved by the just +indignation of a man well over forty, menaced in what is dearest +to him—his repose and his security—he asked himself +scornfully what else could have been expected from such a lot, +this Karl Yundt, this Michaelis—this Ossipon.</p> + +<p>Pausing in his intention to turn off the gas burning in the +middle of the shop, Mr Verloc descended into the abyss of moral +reflections. With the insight of a kindred temperament he +pronounced his verdict. A lazy lot—this Karl Yundt, +nursed by a blear-eyed old woman, a woman he had years ago +enticed away from a friend, and afterwards had tried more than +once to shake off into the gutter. Jolly lucky for Yundt +that she had persisted in coming up time after time, or else +there would have been no one now to help him out of the +’bus by the Green Park railings, where that spectre took +its constitutional crawl every fine morning. When that +indomitable snarling old witch died the swaggering spectre would +have to vanish too—there would be an end to fiery Karl +Yundt. And Mr Verloc’s morality was offended also by +the optimism of Michaelis, annexed by his wealthy old lady, who +had taken lately to sending him to a cottage she had in the +country. The ex-prisoner could moon about the shady lanes +for days together in a delicious and humanitarian idleness. +As to Ossipon, that beggar was sure to want for nothing as long +as there were silly girls with savings-bank books in the +world. And Mr Verloc, temperamentally identical with his +associates, drew fine distinctions in his mind on the strength of +insignificant differences. He drew them with a certain +complacency, because the instinct of conventional respectability +was strong within him, being only overcome by his dislike of all +kinds of recognised labour—a temperamental defect which he +shared with a large proportion of revolutionary reformers of a +given social state. For obviously one does not revolt +against the advantages and opportunities of that state, but +against the price which must be paid for the same in the coin of +accepted morality, self-restraint, and toil. The majority +of revolutionists are the enemies of discipline and fatigue +mostly. There are natures too, to whose sense of justice +the price exacted looms up monstrously enormous, odious, +oppressive, worrying, humiliating, extortionate, +intolerable. Those are the fanatics. The remaining +portion of social rebels is accounted for by vanity, the mother +of all noble and vile illusions, the companion of poets, +reformers, charlatans, prophets, and incendiaries.</p> + +<p>Lost for a whole minute in the abyss of meditation, Mr Verloc +did not reach the depth of these abstract considerations. +Perhaps he was not able. In any case he had not the +time. He was pulled up painfully by the sudden recollection +of Mr Vladimir, another of his associates, whom in virtue of +subtle moral affinities he was capable of judging +correctly. He considered him as dangerous. A shade of +envy crept into his thoughts. Loafing was all very well for +these fellows, who knew not Mr Vladimir, and had women to fall +back upon; whereas he had a woman to provide for—</p> + +<p>At this point, by a simple association of ideas, Mr Verloc was +brought face to face with the necessity of going to bed some time +or other that evening. Then why not go now—at +once? He sighed. The necessity was not so normally +pleasurable as it ought to have been for a man of his age and +temperament. He dreaded the demon of sleeplessness, which +he felt had marked him for its own. He raised his arm, and +turned off the flaring gas-jet above his head.</p> + +<p>A bright band of light fell through the parlour door into the +part of the shop behind the counter. It enabled Mr Verloc +to ascertain at a glance the number of silver coins in the +till. These were but few; and for the first time since he +opened his shop he took a commercial survey of its value. +This survey was unfavourable. He had gone into trade for no +commercial reasons. He had been guided in the selection of +this peculiar line of business by an instinctive leaning towards +shady transactions, where money is picked up easily. +Moreover, it did not take him out of his own sphere—the +sphere which is watched by the police. On the contrary, it +gave him a publicly confessed standing in that sphere, and as Mr +Verloc had unconfessed relations which made him familiar with yet +careless of the police, there was a distinct advantage in such a +situation. But as a means of livelihood it was by itself +insufficient.</p> + +<p>He took the cash-box out of the drawer, and turning to leave +the shop, became aware that Stevie was still downstairs.</p> + +<p>What on earth is he doing there? Mr Verloc asked +himself. What’s the meaning of these antics? He +looked dubiously at his brother-in-law, but he did not ask him +for information. Mr Verloc’s intercourse with Stevie +was limited to the casual mutter of a morning, after breakfast, +“My boots,” and even that was more a communication at +large of a need than a direct order or request. Mr Verloc +perceived with some surprise that he did not know really what to +say to Stevie. He stood still in the middle of the parlour, +and looked into the kitchen in silence. Nor yet did he know +what would happen if he did say anything. And this appeared +very queer to Mr Verloc in view of the fact, borne upon him +suddenly, that he had to provide for this fellow too. He +had never given a moment’s thought till then to that aspect +of Stevie’s existence.</p> + +<p>Positively he did not know how to speak to the lad. He +watched him gesticulating and murmuring in the kitchen. +Stevie prowled round the table like an excited animal in a +cage. A tentative “Hadn’t you better go to bed +now?” produced no effect whatever; and Mr Verloc, +abandoning the stony contemplation of his brother-in-law’s +behaviour, crossed the parlour wearily, cash-box in hand. +The cause of the general lassitude he felt while climbing the +stairs being purely mental, he became alarmed by its inexplicable +character. He hoped he was not sickening for +anything. He stopped on the dark landing to examine his +sensations. But a slight and continuous sound of snoring +pervading the obscurity interfered with their clearness. +The sound came from his mother-in-law’s room. Another +one to provide for, he thought—and on this thought walked +into the bedroom.</p> + +<p>Mrs Verloc had fallen asleep with the lamp (no gas was laid +upstairs) turned up full on the table by the side of the +bed. The light thrown down by the shade fell dazzlingly on +the white pillow sunk by the weight of her head reposing with +closed eyes and dark hair done up in several plaits for the +night. She woke up with the sound of her name in her ears, +and saw her husband standing over her.</p> + +<p>“Winnie! Winnie!”</p> + +<p>At first she did not stir, lying very quiet and looking at the +cash-box in Mr Verloc’s hand. But when she understood +that her brother was “capering all over the place +downstairs” she swung out in one sudden movement on to the +edge of the bed. Her bare feet, as if poked through the +bottom of an unadorned, sleeved calico sack buttoned tightly at +neck and wrists, felt over the rug for the slippers while she +looked upward into her husband’s face.</p> + +<p>“I don’t know how to manage him,” Mr Verloc +explained peevishly. “Won’t do to leave him +downstairs alone with the lights.”</p> + +<p>She said nothing, glided across the room swiftly, and the door +closed upon her white form.</p> + +<p>Mr Verloc deposited the cash-box on the night table, and began +the operation of undressing by flinging his overcoat on to a +distant chair. His coat and waistcoat followed. He +walked about the room in his stockinged feet, and his burly +figure, with the hands worrying nervously at his throat, passed +and repassed across the long strip of looking-glass in the door +of his wife’s wardrobe. Then after slipping his +braces off his shoulders he pulled up violently the venetian +blind, and leaned his forehead against the cold +window-pane—a fragile film of glass stretched between him +and the enormity of cold, black, wet, muddy, inhospitable +accumulation of bricks, slates, and stones, things in themselves +unlovely and unfriendly to man.</p> + +<p>Mr Verloc felt the latent unfriendliness of all out of doors +with a force approaching to positive bodily anguish. There +is no occupation that fails a man more completely than that of a +secret agent of police. It’s like your horse suddenly +falling dead under you in the midst of an uninhabited and thirsty +plain. The comparison occurred to Mr Verloc because he had +sat astride various army horses in his time, and had now the +sensation of an incipient fall. The prospect was as black +as the window-pane against which he was leaning his +forehead. And suddenly the face of Mr Vladimir, +clean-shaved and witty, appeared enhaloed in the glow of its rosy +complexion like a sort of pink seal, impressed on the fatal +darkness.</p> + +<p>This luminous and mutilated vision was so ghastly physically +that Mr Verloc started away from the window, letting down the +venetian blind with a great rattle. Discomposed and +speechless with the apprehension of more such visions, he beheld +his wife re-enter the room and get into bed in a calm +business-like manner which made him feel hopelessly lonely in the +world. Mrs Verloc expressed her surprise at seeing him up +yet.</p> + +<p>“I don’t feel very well,” he muttered, +passing his hands over his moist brow.</p> + +<p>“Giddiness?”</p> + +<p>“Yes. Not at all well.”</p> + +<p>Mrs Verloc, with all the placidity of an experienced wife, +expressed a confident opinion as to the cause, and suggested the +usual remedies; but her husband, rooted in the middle of the +room, shook his lowered head sadly.</p> + +<p>“You’ll catch cold standing there,” she +observed.</p> + +<p>Mr Verloc made an effort, finished undressing, and got into +bed. Down below in the quiet, narrow street measured +footsteps approached the house, then died away unhurried and +firm, as if the passer-by had started to pace out all eternity, +from gas-lamp to gas-lamp in a night without end; and the drowsy +ticking of the old clock on the landing became distinctly audible +in the bedroom.</p> + +<p>Mrs Verloc, on her back, and staring at the ceiling, made a +remark.</p> + +<p>“Takings very small to-day.”</p> + +<p>Mr Verloc, in the same position, cleared his throat as if for +an important statement, but merely inquired:</p> + +<p>“Did you turn off the gas downstairs?”</p> + +<p>“Yes; I did,” answered Mrs Verloc +conscientiously. “That poor boy is in a very excited +state to-night,” she murmured, after a pause which lasted +for three ticks of the clock.</p> + +<p>Mr Verloc cared nothing for Stevie’s excitement, but he +felt horribly wakeful, and dreaded facing the darkness and +silence that would follow the extinguishing of the lamp. +This dread led him to make the remark that Stevie had disregarded +his suggestion to go to bed. Mrs Verloc, falling into the +trap, started to demonstrate at length to her husband that this +was not “impudence” of any sort, but simply +“excitement.” There was no young man of his age +in London more willing and docile than Stephen, she affirmed; +none more affectionate and ready to please, and even useful, as +long as people did not upset his poor head. Mrs Verloc, +turning towards her recumbent husband, raised herself on her +elbow, and hung over him in her anxiety that he should believe +Stevie to be a useful member of the family. That ardour of +protecting compassion exalted morbidly in her childhood by the +misery of another child tinged her sallow cheeks with a faint +dusky blush, made her big eyes gleam under the dark lids. +Mrs Verloc then looked younger; she looked as young as Winnie +used to look, and much more animated than the Winnie of the +Belgravian mansion days had ever allowed herself to appear to +gentlemen lodgers. Mr Verloc’s anxieties had +prevented him from attaching any sense to what his wife was +saying. It was as if her voice were talking on the other +side of a very thick wall. It was her aspect that recalled +him to himself.</p> + +<p>He appreciated this woman, and the sentiment of this +appreciation, stirred by a display of something resembling +emotion, only added another pang to his mental anguish. +When her voice ceased he moved uneasily, and said:</p> + +<p>“I haven’t been feeling well for the last few +days.”</p> + +<p>He might have meant this as an opening to a complete +confidence; but Mrs Verloc laid her head on the pillow again, and +staring upward, went on:</p> + +<p>“That boy hears too much of what is talked about +here. If I had known they were coming to-night I would have +seen to it that he went to bed at the same time I did. He +was out of his mind with something he overheard about eating +people’s flesh and drinking blood. What’s the +good of talking like that?”</p> + +<p>There was a note of indignant scorn in her voice. Mr +Verloc was fully responsive now.</p> + +<p>“Ask Karl Yundt,” he growled savagely.</p> + +<p>Mrs Verloc, with great decision, pronounced Karl Yundt +“a disgusting old man.” She declared openly her +affection for Michaelis. Of the robust Ossipon, in whose +presence she always felt uneasy behind an attitude of stony +reserve, she said nothing whatever. And continuing to talk +of that brother, who had been for so many years an object of care +and fears:</p> + +<p>“He isn’t fit to hear what’s said +here. He believes it’s all true. He knows no +better. He gets into his passions over it.”</p> + +<p>Mr Verloc made no comment.</p> + +<p>“He glared at me, as if he didn’t know who I was, +when I went downstairs. His heart was going like a +hammer. He can’t help being excitable. I woke +mother up, and asked her to sit with him till he went to +sleep. It isn’t his fault. He’s no +trouble when he’s left alone.”</p> + +<p>Mr Verloc made no comment.</p> + +<p>“I wish he had never been to school,” Mrs Verloc +began again brusquely. “He’s always taking away +those newspapers from the window to read. He gets a red +face poring over them. We don’t get rid of a dozen +numbers in a month. They only take up room in the front +window. And Mr Ossipon brings every week a pile of these F. +P. tracts to sell at a halfpenny each. I wouldn’t +give a halfpenny for the whole lot. It’s silly +reading—that’s what it is. There’s no +sale for it. The other day Stevie got hold of one, and +there was a story in it of a German soldier officer tearing +half-off the ear of a recruit, and nothing was done to him for +it. The brute! I couldn’t do anything with +Stevie that afternoon. The story was enough, too, to make +one’s blood boil. But what’s the use of +printing things like that? We aren’t German slaves +here, thank God. It’s not our business—is +it?”</p> + +<p>Mr Verloc made no reply.</p> + +<p>“I had to take the carving knife from the boy,” +Mrs Verloc continued, a little sleepily now. “He was +shouting and stamping and sobbing. He can’t stand the +notion of any cruelty. He would have stuck that officer +like a pig if he had seen him then. It’s true, +too! Some people don’t deserve much +mercy.” Mrs Verloc’s voice ceased, and the +expression of her motionless eyes became more and more +contemplative and veiled during the long pause. +“Comfortable, dear?” she asked in a faint, far-away +voice. “Shall I put out the light now?”</p> + +<p>The dreary conviction that there was no sleep for him held Mr +Verloc mute and hopelessly inert in his fear of darkness. +He made a great effort.</p> + +<p>“Yes. Put it out,” he said at last in a +hollow tone.</p> + +<h2>CHAPTER IV</h2> + +<p>Most of the thirty or so little tables covered by red cloths +with a white design stood ranged at right angles to the deep +brown wainscoting of the underground hall. Bronze +chandeliers with many globes depended from the low, slightly +vaulted ceiling, and the fresco paintings ran flat and dull all +round the walls without windows, representing scenes of the chase +and of outdoor revelry in mediæval costumes. Varlets +in green jerkins brandished hunting knives and raised on high +tankards of foaming beer.</p> + +<p>“Unless I am very much mistaken, you are the man who +would know the inside of this confounded affair,” said the +robust Ossipon, leaning over, his elbows far out on the table and +his feet tucked back completely under his chair. His eyes +stared with wild eagerness.</p> + +<p>An upright semi-grand piano near the door, flanked by two +palms in pots, executed suddenly all by itself a valse tune with +aggressive virtuosity. The din it raised was +deafening. When it ceased, as abruptly as it had started, +the be-spectacled, dingy little man who faced Ossipon behind a +heavy glass mug full of beer emitted calmly what had the sound of +a general proposition.</p> + +<p>“In principle what one of us may or may not know as to +any given fact can’t be a matter for inquiry to the +others.”</p> + +<p>“Certainly not,” Comrade Ossipon agreed in a quiet +undertone. “In principle.”</p> + +<p>With his big florid face held between his hands he continued +to stare hard, while the dingy little man in spectacles coolly +took a drink of beer and stood the glass mug back on the +table. His flat, large ears departed widely from the sides +of his skull, which looked frail enough for Ossipon to crush +between thumb and forefinger; the dome of the forehead seemed to +rest on the rim of the spectacles; the flat cheeks, of a greasy, +unhealthy complexion, were merely smudged by the miserable +poverty of a thin dark whisker. The lamentable inferiority +of the whole physique was made ludicrous by the supremely +self-confident bearing of the individual. His speech was +curt, and he had a particularly impressive manner of keeping +silent.</p> + +<p>Ossipon spoke again from between his hands in a mutter.</p> + +<p>“Have you been out much to-day?”</p> + +<p>“No. I stayed in bed all the morning,” +answered the other. “Why?”</p> + +<p>“Oh! Nothing,” said Ossipon, gazing +earnestly and quivering inwardly with the desire to find out +something, but obviously intimidated by the little man’s +overwhelming air of unconcern. When talking with this +comrade—which happened but rarely—the big Ossipon +suffered from a sense of moral and even physical +insignificance. However, he ventured another +question. “Did you walk down here?”</p> + +<p>“No; omnibus,” the little man answered readily +enough. He lived far away in Islington, in a small house +down a shabby street, littered with straw and dirty paper, where +out of school hours a troop of assorted children ran and +squabbled with a shrill, joyless, rowdy clamour. His single +back room, remarkable for having an extremely large cupboard, he +rented furnished from two elderly spinsters, dressmakers in a +humble way with a clientele of servant girls mostly. He had +a heavy padlock put on the cupboard, but otherwise he was a model +lodger, giving no trouble, and requiring practically no +attendance. His oddities were that he insisted on being +present when his room was being swept, and that when he went out +he locked his door, and took the key away with him.</p> + +<p>Ossipon had a vision of these round black-rimmed spectacles +progressing along the streets on the top of an omnibus, their +self-confident glitter falling here and there on the walls of +houses or lowered upon the heads of the unconscious stream of +people on the pavements. The ghost of a sickly smile +altered the set of Ossipon’s thick lips at the thought of +the walls nodding, of people running for life at the sight of +those spectacles. If they had only known! What a +panic! He murmured interrogatively: “Been sitting +long here?”</p> + +<p>“An hour or more,” answered the other negligently, +and took a pull at the dark beer. All his +movements—the way he grasped the mug, the act of drinking, +the way he set the heavy glass down and folded his arms—had +a firmness, an assured precision which made the big and muscular +Ossipon, leaning forward with staring eyes and protruding lips, +look the picture of eager indecision.</p> + +<p>“An hour,” he said. “Then it may be +you haven’t heard yet the news I’ve heard just +now—in the street. Have you?”</p> + +<p>The little man shook his head negatively the least bit. +But as he gave no indication of curiosity Ossipon ventured to add +that he had heard it just outside the place. A newspaper +boy had yelled the thing under his very nose, and not being +prepared for anything of that sort, he was very much startled and +upset. He had to come in there with a dry mouth. +“I never thought of finding you here,” he added, +murmuring steadily, with his elbows planted on the table.</p> + +<p>“I come here sometimes,” said the other, +preserving his provoking coolness of demeanour.</p> + +<p>“It’s wonderful that you of all people should have +heard nothing of it,” the big Ossipon continued. His +eyelids snapped nervously upon the shining eyes. “You +of all people,” he repeated tentatively. This obvious +restraint argued an incredible and inexplicable timidity of the +big fellow before the calm little man, who again lifted the glass +mug, drank, and put it down with brusque and assured +movements. And that was all.</p> + +<p>Ossipon after waiting for something, word or sign, that did +not come, made an effort to assume a sort of indifference.</p> + +<p>“Do you,” he said, deadening his voice still more, +“give your stuff to anybody who’s up to asking you +for it?”</p> + +<p>“My absolute rule is never to refuse anybody—as +long as I have a pinch by me,” answered the little man with +decision.</p> + +<p>“That’s a principle?” commented Ossipon.</p> + +<p>“It’s a principle.”</p> + +<p>“And you think it’s sound?”</p> + +<p>The large round spectacles, which gave a look of staring +self-confidence to the sallow face, confronted Ossipon like +sleepless, unwinking orbs flashing a cold fire.</p> + +<p>“Perfectly. Always. Under every +circumstance. What could stop me? Why should I +not? Why should I think twice about it?”</p> + +<p>Ossipon gasped, as it were, discreetly.</p> + +<p>“Do you mean to say you would hand it over to a +‘teck’ if one came to ask you for your +wares?”</p> + +<p>The other smiled faintly.</p> + +<p>“Let them come and try it on, and you will see,” +he said. “They know me, but I know also every one of +them. They won’t come near me—not +they.”</p> + +<p>His thin livid lips snapped together firmly. Ossipon +began to argue.</p> + +<p>“But they could send someone—rig a plant on +you. Don’t you see? Get the stuff from you in +that way, and then arrest you with the proof in their +hands.”</p> + +<p>“Proof of what? Dealing in explosives without a +licence perhaps.” This was meant for a contemptuous +jeer, though the expression of the thin, sickly face remained +unchanged, and the utterance was negligent. “I +don’t think there’s one of them anxious to make that +arrest. I don’t think they could get one of them to +apply for a warrant. I mean one of the best. Not +one.”</p> + +<p>“Why?” Ossipon asked.</p> + +<p>“Because they know very well I take care never to part +with the last handful of my wares. I’ve it always by +me.” He touched the breast of his coat lightly. +“In a thick glass flask,” he added.</p> + +<p>“So I have been told,” said Ossipon, with a shade +of wonder in his voice. “But I didn’t know +if—”</p> + +<p>“They know,” interrupted the little man crisply, +leaning against the straight chair back, which rose higher than +his fragile head. “I shall never be arrested. +The game isn’t good enough for any policeman of them +all. To deal with a man like me you require sheer, naked, +inglorious heroism.” Again his lips closed with a +self-confident snap. Ossipon repressed a movement of +impatience.</p> + +<p>“Or recklessness—or simply ignorance,” he +retorted. “They’ve only to get somebody for the +job who does not know you carry enough stuff in your pocket to +blow yourself and everything within sixty yards of you to +pieces.”</p> + +<p>“I never affirmed I could not be eliminated,” +rejoined the other. “But that wouldn’t be an +arrest. Moreover, it’s not so easy as it +looks.”</p> + +<p>“Bah!” Ossipon contradicted. +“Don’t be too sure of that. What’s to +prevent half-a-dozen of them jumping upon you from behind in the +street? With your arms pinned to your sides you could do +nothing—could you?”</p> + +<p>“Yes; I could. I am seldom out in the streets +after dark,” said the little man impassively, “and +never very late. I walk always with my right hand closed +round the india-rubber ball which I have in my trouser +pocket. The pressing of this ball actuates a detonator +inside the flask I carry in my pocket. It’s the +principle of the pneumatic instantaneous shutter for a camera +lens. The tube leads up—”</p> + +<p>With a swift disclosing gesture he gave Ossipon a glimpse of +an india-rubber tube, resembling a slender brown worm, issuing +from the armhole of his waistcoat and plunging into the inner +breast pocket of his jacket. His clothes, of a nondescript +brown mixture, were threadbare and marked with stains, dusty in +the folds, with ragged button-holes. “The detonator +is partly mechanical, partly chemical,” he explained, with +casual condescension.</p> + +<p>“It is instantaneous, of course?” murmured +Ossipon, with a slight shudder.</p> + +<p>“Far from it,” confessed the other, with a +reluctance which seemed to twist his mouth dolorously. +“A full twenty seconds must elapse from the moment I press +the ball till the explosion takes place.”</p> + +<p>“Phew!” whistled Ossipon, completely +appalled. “Twenty seconds! Horrors! You +mean to say that you could face that? I should go +crazy—”</p> + +<p>“Wouldn’t matter if you did. Of course, +it’s the weak point of this special system, which is only +for my own use. The worst is that the manner of exploding +is always the weak point with us. I am trying to invent a +detonator that would adjust itself to all conditions of action, +and even to unexpected changes of conditions. A variable +and yet perfectly precise mechanism. A really intelligent +detonator.”</p> + +<p>“Twenty seconds,” muttered Ossipon again. +“Ough! And then—”</p> + +<p>With a slight turn of the head the glitter of the spectacles +seemed to gauge the size of the beer saloon in the basement of +the renowned Silenus Restaurant.</p> + +<p>“Nobody in this room could hope to escape,” was +the verdict of that survey. “Nor yet this couple +going up the stairs now.”</p> + +<p>The piano at the foot of the staircase clanged through a +mazurka with brazen impetuosity, as though a vulgar and impudent +ghost were showing off. The keys sank and rose +mysteriously. Then all became still. For a moment +Ossipon imagined the overlighted place changed into a dreadful +black hole belching horrible fumes choked with ghastly rubbish of +smashed brickwork and mutilated corpses. He had such a +distinct perception of ruin and death that he shuddered +again. The other observed, with an air of calm +sufficiency:</p> + +<p>“In the last instance it is character alone that makes +for one’s safety. There are very few people in the +world whose character is as well established as mine.”</p> + +<p>“I wonder how you managed it,” growled +Ossipon.</p> + +<p>“Force of personality,” said the other, without +raising his voice; and coming from the mouth of that obviously +miserable organism the assertion caused the robust Ossipon to +bite his lower lip. “Force of personality,” he +repeated, with ostentatious calm. “I have the means +to make myself deadly, but that by itself, you understand, is +absolutely nothing in the way of protection. What is +effective is the belief those people have in my will to use the +means. That’s their impression. It is +absolute. Therefore I am deadly.”</p> + +<p>“There are individuals of character amongst that lot +too,” muttered Ossipon ominously.</p> + +<p>“Possibly. But it is a matter of degree obviously, +since, for instance, I am not impressed by them. Therefore +they are inferior. They cannot be otherwise. Their +character is built upon conventional morality. It leans on +the social order. Mine stands free from everything +artificial. They are bound in all sorts of +conventions. They depend on life, which, in this +connection, is a historical fact surrounded by all sorts of +restraints and considerations, a complex organised fact open to +attack at every point; whereas I depend on death, which knows no +restraint and cannot be attacked. My superiority is +evident.”</p> + +<p>“This is a transcendental way of putting it,” said +Ossipon, watching the cold glitter of the round spectacles. +“I’ve heard Karl Yundt say much the same thing not +very long ago.”</p> + +<p>“Karl Yundt,” mumbled the other contemptuously, +“the delegate of the International Red Committee, has been +a posturing shadow all his life. There are three of you +delegates, aren’t there? I won’t define the +other two, as you are one of them. But what you say means +nothing. You are the worthy delegates for revolutionary +propaganda, but the trouble is not only that you are as unable to +think independently as any respectable grocer or journalist of +them all, but that you have no character whatever.”</p> + +<p>Ossipon could not restrain a start of indignation.</p> + +<p>“But what do you want from us?” he exclaimed in a +deadened voice. “What is it you are after +yourself?”</p> + +<p>“A perfect detonator,” was the peremptory +answer. “What are you making that face for? You +see, you can’t even bear the mention of something +conclusive.”</p> + +<p>“I am not making a face,” growled the annoyed +Ossipon bearishly.</p> + +<p>“You revolutionists,” the other continued, with +leisurely self-confidence, “are the slaves of the social +convention, which is afraid of you; slaves of it as much as the +very police that stands up in the defence of that +convention. Clearly you are, since you want to +revolutionise it. It governs your thought, of course, and +your action too, and thus neither your thought nor your action +can ever be conclusive.” He paused, tranquil, with +that air of close, endless silence, then almost immediately went +on. “You are not a bit better than the forces arrayed +against you—than the police, for instance. The other +day I came suddenly upon Chief Inspector Heat at the corner of +Tottenham Court Road. He looked at me very steadily. +But I did not look at him. Why should I give him more than +a glance? He was thinking of many things—of his +superiors, of his reputation, of the law courts, of his salary, +of newspapers—of a hundred things. But I was thinking +of my perfect detonator only. He meant nothing to me. +He was as insignificant as—I can’t call to mind +anything insignificant enough to compare him with—except +Karl Yundt perhaps. Like to like. The terrorist and +the policeman both come from the same basket. Revolution, +legality—counter moves in the same game; forms of idleness +at bottom identical. He plays his little game—so do +you propagandists. But I don’t play; I work fourteen +hours a day, and go hungry sometimes. My experiments cost +money now and again, and then I must do without food for a day or +two. You’re looking at my beer. Yes. I +have had two glasses already, and shall have another +presently. This is a little holiday, and I celebrate it +alone. Why not? I’ve the grit to work alone, +quite alone, absolutely alone. I’ve worked alone for +years.”</p> + +<p>Ossipon’s face had turned dusky red.</p> + +<p>“At the perfect detonator—eh?” he sneered, +very low.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” retorted the other. “It is a +good definition. You couldn’t find anything half so +precise to define the nature of your activity with all your +committees and delegations. It is I who am the true +propagandist.”</p> + +<p>“We won’t discuss that point,” said Ossipon, +with an air of rising above personal considerations. +“I am afraid I’ll have to spoil your holiday for you, +though. There’s a man blown up in Greenwich Park this +morning.”</p> + +<p>“How do you know?”</p> + +<p>“They have been yelling the news in the streets since +two o’clock. I bought the paper, and just ran in +here. Then I saw you sitting at this table. +I’ve got it in my pocket now.”</p> + +<p>He pulled the newspaper out. It was a good-sized rosy +sheet, as if flushed by the warmth of its own convictions, which +were optimistic. He scanned the pages rapidly.</p> + +<p>“Ah! Here it is. Bomb in Greenwich +Park. There isn’t much so far. Half-past +eleven. Foggy morning. Effects of explosion felt as +far as Romney Road and Park Place. Enormous hole in the +ground under a tree filled with smashed roots and broken +branches. All round fragments of a man’s body blown +to pieces. That’s all. The rest’s mere +newspaper gup. No doubt a wicked attempt to blow up the +Observatory, they say. H’m. That’s hardly +credible.”</p> + +<p>He looked at the paper for a while longer in silence, then +passed it to the other, who after gazing abstractedly at the +print laid it down without comment.</p> + +<p>It was Ossipon who spoke first—still resentful.</p> + +<p>“The fragments of only <i>one</i> man, you note. +Ergo: blew <i>himself</i> up. That spoils your day off for +you—don’t it? Were you expecting that sort of +move? I hadn’t the slightest idea—not the ghost +of a notion of anything of the sort being planned to come off +here—in this country. Under the present circumstances +it’s nothing short of criminal.”</p> + +<p>The little man lifted his thin black eyebrows with +dispassionate scorn.</p> + +<p>“Criminal! What is that? What <i>is</i> +crime? What can be the meaning of such an +assertion?”</p> + +<p>“How am I to express myself? One must use the +current words,” said Ossipon impatiently. “The +meaning of this assertion is that this business may affect our +position very adversely in this country. Isn’t that +crime enough for you? I am convinced you have been giving +away some of your stuff lately.”</p> + +<p>Ossipon stared hard. The other, without flinching, +lowered and raised his head slowly.</p> + +<p>“You have!” burst out the editor of the F. P. +leaflets in an intense whisper. “No! And are +you really handing it over at large like this, for the asking, to +the first fool that comes along?”</p> + +<p>“Just so! The condemned social order has not been +built up on paper and ink, and I don’t fancy that a +combination of paper and ink will ever put an end to it, whatever +you may think. Yes, I would give the stuff with both hands +to every man, woman, or fool that likes to come along. I +know what you are thinking about. But I am not taking my +cue from the Red Committee. I would see you all hounded out +of here, or arrested—or beheaded for that +matter—without turning a hair. What happens to us as +individuals is not of the least consequence.”</p> + +<p>He spoke carelessly, without heat, almost without feeling, and +Ossipon, secretly much affected, tried to copy this +detachment.</p> + +<p>“If the police here knew their business they would shoot +you full of holes with revolvers, or else try to sand-bag you +from behind in broad daylight.”</p> + +<p>The little man seemed already to have considered that point of +view in his dispassionate self-confident manner.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” he assented with the utmost +readiness. “But for that they would have to face +their own institutions. Do you see? That requires +uncommon grit. Grit of a special kind.”</p> + +<p>Ossipon blinked.</p> + +<p>“I fancy that’s exactly what would happen to you +if you were to set up your laboratory in the States. They +don’t stand on ceremony with their institutions +there.”</p> + +<p>“I am not likely to go and see. Otherwise your +remark is just,” admitted the other. “They have +more character over there, and their character is essentially +anarchistic. Fertile ground for us, the States—very +good ground. The great Republic has the root of the +destructive matter in her. The collective temperament is +lawless. Excellent. They may shoot us down, +but—”</p> + +<p>“You are too transcendental for me,” growled +Ossipon, with moody concern.</p> + +<p>“Logical,” protested the other. “There +are several kinds of logic. This is the enlightened +kind. America is all right. It is this country that +is dangerous, with her idealistic conception of legality. +The social spirit of this people is wrapped up in scrupulous +prejudices, and that is fatal to our work. You talk of +England being our only refuge! So much the worse. +Capua! What do we want with refuges? Here you talk, +print, plot, and do nothing. I daresay it’s very +convenient for such Karl Yundts.”</p> + +<p>He shrugged his shoulders slightly, then added with the same +leisurely assurance: “To break up the superstition and +worship of legality should be our aim. Nothing would please +me more than to see Inspector Heat and his likes take to shooting +us down in broad daylight with the approval of the public. +Half our battle would be won then; the disintegration of the old +morality would have set in in its very temple. That is what +you ought to aim at. But you revolutionists will never +understand that. You plan the future, you lose yourselves +in reveries of economical systems derived from what is; whereas +what’s wanted is a clean sweep and a clear start for a new +conception of life. That sort of future will take care of +itself if you will only make room for it. Therefore I would +shovel my stuff in heaps at the corners of the streets if I had +enough for that; and as I haven’t, I do my best by +perfecting a really dependable detonator.”</p> + +<p>Ossipon, who had been mentally swimming in deep waters, seized +upon the last word as if it were a saving plank.</p> + +<p>“Yes. Your detonators. I shouldn’t +wonder if it weren’t one of your detonators that made a +clean sweep of the man in the park.”</p> + +<p>A shade of vexation darkened the determined sallow face +confronting Ossipon.</p> + +<p>“My difficulty consists precisely in experimenting +practically with the various kinds. They must be tried +after all. Besides—”</p> + +<p>Ossipon interrupted.</p> + +<p>“Who could that fellow be? I assure you that we in +London had no knowledge—Couldn’t you describe the +person you gave the stuff to?”</p> + +<p>The other turned his spectacles upon Ossipon like a pair of +searchlights.</p> + +<p>“Describe him,” he repeated slowly. “I +don’t think there can be the slightest objection now. +I will describe him to you in one word—Verloc.”</p> + +<p>Ossipon, whom curiosity had lifted a few inches off his seat, +dropped back, as if hit in the face.</p> + +<p>“Verloc! Impossible.”</p> + +<p>The self-possessed little man nodded slightly once.</p> + +<p>“Yes. He’s the person. You can’t +say that in this case I was giving my stuff to the first fool +that came along. He was a prominent member of the group as +far as I understand.”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” said Ossipon. “Prominent. +No, not exactly. He was the centre for general +intelligence, and usually received comrades coming over +here. More useful than important. Man of no +ideas. Years ago he used to speak at meetings—in +France, I believe. Not very well, though. He was +trusted by such men as Latorre, Moser and all that old lot. +The only talent he showed really was his ability to elude the +attentions of the police somehow. Here, for instance, he +did not seem to be looked after very closely. He was +regularly married, you know. I suppose it’s with her +money that he started that shop. Seemed to make it pay, +too.”</p> + +<p>Ossipon paused abruptly, muttered to himself “I wonder +what that woman will do now?” and fell into thought.</p> + +<p>The other waited with ostentatious indifference. His +parentage was obscure, and he was generally known only by his +nickname of Professor. His title to that designation +consisted in his having been once assistant demonstrator in +chemistry at some technical institute. He quarrelled with +the authorities upon a question of unfair treatment. +Afterwards he obtained a post in the laboratory of a manufactory +of dyes. There too he had been treated with revolting +injustice. His struggles, his privations, his hard work to +raise himself in the social scale, had filled him with such an +exalted conviction of his merits that it was extremely difficult +for the world to treat him with justice—the standard of +that notion depending so much upon the patience of the +individual. The Professor had genius, but lacked the great +social virtue of resignation.</p> + +<p>“Intellectually a nonentity,” Ossipon pronounced +aloud, abandoning suddenly the inward contemplation of Mrs +Verloc’s bereaved person and business. “Quite +an ordinary personality. You are wrong in not keeping more +in touch with the comrades, Professor,” he added in a +reproving tone. “Did he say anything to +you—give you some idea of his intentions? I +hadn’t seen him for a month. It seems impossible that +he should be gone.”</p> + +<p>“He told me it was going to be a demonstration against a +building,” said the Professor. “I had to know +that much to prepare the missile. I pointed out to him that +I had hardly a sufficient quantity for a completely destructive +result, but he pressed me very earnestly to do my best. As +he wanted something that could be carried openly in the hand, I +proposed to make use of an old one-gallon copal varnish can I +happened to have by me. He was pleased at the idea. +It gave me some trouble, because I had to cut out the bottom +first and solder it on again afterwards. When prepared for +use, the can enclosed a wide-mouthed, well-corked jar of thick +glass packed around with some wet clay and containing sixteen +ounces of X2 green powder. The detonator was connected with +the screw top of the can. It was ingenious—a +combination of time and shock. I explained the system to +him. It was a thin tube of tin enclosing +a—”</p> + +<p>Ossipon’s attention had wandered.</p> + +<p>“What do you think has happened?” he +interrupted.</p> + +<p>“Can’t tell. Screwed the top on tight, which +would make the connection, and then forgot the time. It was +set for twenty minutes. On the other hand, the time contact +being made, a sharp shock would bring about the explosion at +once. He either ran the time too close, or simply let the +thing fall. The contact was made all +right—that’s clear to me at any rate. The +system’s worked perfectly. And yet you would think +that a common fool in a hurry would be much more likely to forget +to make the contact altogether. I was worrying myself about +that sort of failure mostly. But there are more kinds of +fools than one can guard against. You can’t expect a +detonator to be absolutely fool-proof.”</p> + +<p>He beckoned to a waiter. Ossipon sat rigid, with the +abstracted gaze of mental travail. After the man had gone +away with the money he roused himself, with an air of profound +dissatisfaction.</p> + +<p>“It’s extremely unpleasant for me,” he +mused. “Karl has been in bed with bronchitis for a +week. There’s an even chance that he will never get +up again. Michaelis’s luxuriating in the country +somewhere. A fashionable publisher has offered him five +hundred pounds for a book. It will be a ghastly +failure. He has lost the habit of consecutive thinking in +prison, you know.”</p> + +<p>The Professor on his feet, now buttoning his coat, looked +about him with perfect indifference.</p> + +<p>“What are you going to do?” asked Ossipon +wearily. He dreaded the blame of the Central Red Committee, +a body which had no permanent place of abode, and of whose +membership he was not exactly informed. If this affair +eventuated in the stoppage of the modest subsidy allotted to the +publication of the F. P. pamphlets, then indeed he would have to +regret Verloc’s inexplicable folly.</p> + +<p>“Solidarity with the extremest form of action is one +thing, and silly recklessness is another,” he said, with a +sort of moody brutality. “I don’t know what +came to Verloc. There’s some mystery there. +However, he’s gone. You may take it as you like, but +under the circumstances the only policy for the militant +revolutionary group is to disclaim all connection with this +damned freak of yours. How to make the disclaimer +convincing enough is what bothers me.”</p> + +<p>The little man on his feet, buttoned up and ready to go, was +no taller than the seated Ossipon. He levelled his +spectacles at the latter’s face point-blank.</p> + +<p>“You might ask the police for a testimonial of good +conduct. They know where every one of you slept last +night. Perhaps if you asked them they would consent to +publish some sort of official statement.”</p> + +<p>“No doubt they are aware well enough that we had nothing +to do with this,” mumbled Ossipon bitterly. +“What they will say is another thing.” He +remained thoughtful, disregarding the short, owlish, shabby +figure standing by his side. “I must lay hands on +Michaelis at once, and get him to speak from his heart at one of +our gatherings. The public has a sort of sentimental regard +for that fellow. His name is known. And I am in touch +with a few reporters on the big dailies. What he would say +would be utter bosh, but he has a turn of talk that makes it go +down all the same.”</p> + +<p>“Like treacle,” interjected the Professor, rather +low, keeping an impassive expression.</p> + +<p>The perplexed Ossipon went on communing with himself half +audibly, after the manner of a man reflecting in perfect +solitude.</p> + +<p>“Confounded ass! To leave such an imbecile +business on my hands. And I don’t even know +if—”</p> + +<p>He sat with compressed lips. The idea of going for news +straight to the shop lacked charm. His notion was that +Verloc’s shop might have been turned already into a police +trap. They will be bound to make some arrests, he thought, +with something resembling virtuous indignation, for the even +tenor of his revolutionary life was menaced by no fault of +his. And yet unless he went there he ran the risk of +remaining in ignorance of what perhaps it would be very material +for him to know. Then he reflected that, if the man in the +park had been so very much blown to pieces as the evening papers +said, he could not have been identified. And if so, the +police could have no special reason for watching Verloc’s +shop more closely than any other place known to be frequented by +marked anarchists—no more reason, in fact, than for +watching the doors of the Silenus. There would be a lot of +watching all round, no matter where he went. +Still—</p> + +<p>“I wonder what I had better do now?” he muttered, +taking counsel with himself.</p> + +<p>A rasping voice at his elbow said, with sedate scorn:</p> + +<p>“Fasten yourself upon the woman for all she’s +worth.”</p> + +<p>After uttering these words the Professor walked away from the +table. Ossipon, whom that piece of insight had taken +unawares, gave one ineffectual start, and remained still, with a +helpless gaze, as though nailed fast to the seat of his +chair. The lonely piano, without as much as a music stool +to help it, struck a few chords courageously, and beginning a +selection of national airs, played him out at last to the tune of +“Blue Bells of Scotland.” The painfully +detached notes grew faint behind his back while he went slowly +upstairs, across the hall, and into the street.</p> + +<p>In front of the great doorway a dismal row of newspaper +sellers standing clear of the pavement dealt out their wares from +the gutter. It was a raw, gloomy day of the early spring; +and the grimy sky, the mud of the streets, the rags of the dirty +men, harmonised excellently with the eruption of the damp, +rubbishy sheets of paper soiled with printers’ ink. +The posters, maculated with filth, garnished like tapestry the +sweep of the curbstone. The trade in afternoon papers was +brisk, yet, in comparison with the swift, constant march of foot +traffic, the effect was of indifference, of a disregarded +distribution. Ossipon looked hurriedly both ways before +stepping out into the cross-currents, but the Professor was +already out of sight.</p> + +<h2>CHAPTER V</h2> + +<p>The Professor had turned into a street to the left, and walked +along, with his head carried rigidly erect, in a crowd whose +every individual almost overtopped his stunted stature. It +was vain to pretend to himself that he was not +disappointed. But that was mere feeling; the stoicism of +his thought could not be disturbed by this or any other +failure. Next time, or the time after next, a telling +stroke would be delivered—something really startling—a blow +fit to open the first crack in the imposing front of the great +edifice of legal conceptions sheltering the atrocious injustice +of society. Of humble origin, and with an appearance really +so mean as to stand in the way of his considerable natural +abilities, his imagination had been fired early by the tales of +men rising from the depths of poverty to positions of authority +and affluence. The extreme, almost ascetic purity of his +thought, combined with an astounding ignorance of worldly +conditions, had set before him a goal of power and prestige to be +attained without the medium of arts, graces, tact, +wealth—by sheer weight of merit alone. On that view +he considered himself entitled to undisputed success. His +father, a delicate dark enthusiast with a sloping forehead, had +been an itinerant and rousing preacher of some obscure but rigid +Christian sect—a man supremely confident in the privileges +of his righteousness. In the son, individualist by +temperament, once the science of colleges had replaced thoroughly +the faith of conventicles, this moral attitude translated itself +into a frenzied puritanism of ambition. He nursed it as +something secularly holy. To see it thwarted opened his +eyes to the true nature of the world, whose morality was +artificial, corrupt, and blasphemous. The way of even the +most justifiable revolutions is prepared by personal impulses +disguised into creeds. The Professor’s indignation +found in itself a final cause that absolved him from the sin of +turning to destruction as the agent of his ambition. To +destroy public faith in legality was the imperfect formula of his +pedantic fanaticism; but the subconscious conviction that the +framework of an established social order cannot be effectually +shattered except by some form of collective or individual +violence was precise and correct. He was a moral +agent—that was settled in his mind. By exercising his +agency with ruthless defiance he procured for himself the +appearances of power and personal prestige. That was +undeniable to his vengeful bitterness. It pacified its +unrest; and in their own way the most ardent of revolutionaries +are perhaps doing no more but seeking for peace in common with +the rest of mankind—the peace of soothed vanity, of +satisfied appetites, or perhaps of appeased conscience.</p> + +<p>Lost in the crowd, miserable and undersized, he meditated +confidently on his power, keeping his hand in the left pocket of +his trousers, grasping lightly the india-rubber ball, the supreme +guarantee of his sinister freedom; but after a while he became +disagreeably affected by the sight of the roadway thronged with +vehicles and of the pavement crowded with men and women. He +was in a long, straight street, peopled by a mere fraction of an +immense multitude; but all round him, on and on, even to the +limits of the horizon hidden by the enormous piles of bricks, he +felt the mass of mankind mighty in its numbers. They +swarmed numerous like locusts, industrious like ants, thoughtless +like a natural force, pushing on blind and orderly and absorbed, +impervious to sentiment, to logic, to terror too perhaps.</p> + +<p>That was the form of doubt he feared most. Impervious to +fear! Often while walking abroad, when he happened also to +come out of himself, he had such moments of dreadful and sane +mistrust of mankind. What if nothing could move them? +Such moments come to all men whose ambition aims at a direct +grasp upon humanity—to artists, politicians, thinkers, +reformers, or saints. A despicable emotional state this, +against which solitude fortifies a superior character; and with +severe exultation the Professor thought of the refuge of his +room, with its padlocked cupboard, lost in a wilderness of poor +houses, the hermitage of the perfect anarchist. In order to +reach sooner the point where he could take his omnibus, he turned +brusquely out of the populous street into a narrow and dusky +alley paved with flagstones. On one side the low brick +houses had in their dusty windows the sightless, moribund look of +incurable decay—empty shells awaiting demolition. +From the other side life had not departed wholly as yet. +Facing the only gas-lamp yawned the cavern of a second-hand +furniture dealer, where, deep in the gloom of a sort of narrow +avenue winding through a bizarre forest of wardrobes, with an +undergrowth tangle of table legs, a tall pier-glass glimmered +like a pool of water in a wood. An unhappy, homeless couch, +accompanied by two unrelated chairs, stood in the open. The +only human being making use of the alley besides the Professor, +coming stalwart and erect from the opposite direction, checked +his swinging pace suddenly.</p> + +<p>“Hallo!” he said, and stood a little on one side +watchfully.</p> + +<p>The Professor had already stopped, with a ready half turn +which brought his shoulders very near the other wall. His +right hand fell lightly on the back of the outcast couch, the +left remained purposefully plunged deep in the trousers pocket, +and the roundness of the heavy rimmed spectacles imparted an +owlish character to his moody, unperturbed face.</p> + +<p>It was like a meeting in a side corridor of a mansion full of +life. The stalwart man was buttoned up in a dark overcoat, +and carried an umbrella. His hat, tilted back, uncovered a +good deal of forehead, which appeared very white in the +dusk. In the dark patches of the orbits the eyeballs +glimmered piercingly. Long, drooping moustaches, the colour +of ripe corn, framed with their points the square block of his +shaved chin.</p> + +<p>“I am not looking for you,” he said curtly.</p> + +<p>The Professor did not stir an inch. The blended noises +of the enormous town sank down to an inarticulate low +murmur. Chief Inspector Heat of the Special Crimes +Department changed his tone.</p> + +<p>“Not in a hurry to get home?” he asked, with +mocking simplicity.</p> + +<p>The unwholesome-looking little moral agent of destruction +exulted silently in the possession of personal prestige, keeping +in check this man armed with the defensive mandate of a menaced +society. More fortunate than Caligula, who wished that the +Roman Senate had only one head for the better satisfaction of his +cruel lust, he beheld in that one man all the forces he had set +at defiance: the force of law, property, oppression, and +injustice. He beheld all his enemies, and fearlessly +confronted them all in a supreme satisfaction of his +vanity. They stood perplexed before him as if before a +dreadful portent. He gloated inwardly over the chance of +this meeting affirming his superiority over all the multitude of +mankind.</p> + +<p>It was in reality a chance meeting. Chief Inspector Heat +had had a disagreeably busy day since his department received the +first telegram from Greenwich a little before eleven in the +morning. First of all, the fact of the outrage being +attempted less than a week after he had assured a high official +that no outbreak of anarchist activity was to be apprehended was +sufficiently annoying. If he ever thought himself safe in +making a statement, it was then. He had made that statement +with infinite satisfaction to himself, because it was clear that +the high official desired greatly to hear that very thing. +He had affirmed that nothing of the sort could even be thought of +without the department being aware of it within twenty-four +hours; and he had spoken thus in his consciousness of being the +great expert of his department. He had gone even so far as +to utter words which true wisdom would have kept back. But +Chief Inspector Heat was not very wise—at least not truly +so. True wisdom, which is not certain of anything in this +world of contradictions, would have prevented him from attaining +his present position. It would have alarmed his superiors, +and done away with his chances of promotion. His promotion +had been very rapid.</p> + +<p>“There isn’t one of them, sir, that we +couldn’t lay our hands on at any time of night and +day. We know what each of them is doing hour by +hour,” he had declared. And the high official had +deigned to smile. This was so obviously the right thing to +say for an officer of Chief Inspector Heat’s reputation +that it was perfectly delightful. The high official +believed the declaration, which chimed in with his idea of the +fitness of things. His wisdom was of an official kind, or +else he might have reflected upon a matter not of theory but of +experience that in the close-woven stuff of relations between +conspirator and police there occur unexpected solutions of +continuity, sudden holes in space and time. A given +anarchist may be watched inch by inch and minute by minute, but a +moment always comes when somehow all sight and touch of him are +lost for a few hours, during which something (generally an +explosion) more or less deplorable does happen. But the +high official, carried away by his sense of the fitness of +things, had smiled, and now the recollection of that smile was +very annoying to Chief Inspector Heat, principal expert in +anarchist procedure.</p> + +<p>This was not the only circumstance whose recollection +depressed the usual serenity of the eminent specialist. +There was another dating back only to that very morning. +The thought that when called urgently to his Assistant +Commissioner’s private room he had been unable to conceal +his astonishment was distinctly vexing. His instinct of a +successful man had taught him long ago that, as a general rule, a +reputation is built on manner as much as on achievement. +And he felt that his manner when confronted with the telegram had +not been impressive. He had opened his eyes widely, and had +exclaimed “Impossible!” exposing himself thereby to +the unanswerable retort of a finger-tip laid forcibly on the +telegram which the Assistant Commissioner, after reading it +aloud, had flung on the desk. To be crushed, as it were, +under the tip of a forefinger was an unpleasant experience. +Very damaging, too! Furthermore, Chief Inspector Heat was +conscious of not having mended matters by allowing himself to +express a conviction.</p> + +<p>“One thing I can tell you at once: none of our lot had +anything to do with this.”</p> + +<p>He was strong in his integrity of a good detective, but he saw +now that an impenetrably attentive reserve towards this incident +would have served his reputation better. On the other hand, +he admitted to himself that it was difficult to preserve +one’s reputation if rank outsiders were going to take a +hand in the business. Outsiders are the bane of the police +as of other professions. The tone of the Assistant +Commissioner’s remarks had been sour enough to set +one’s teeth on edge.</p> + +<p>And since breakfast Chief Inspector Heat had not managed to +get anything to eat.</p> + +<p>Starting immediately to begin his investigation on the spot, +he had swallowed a good deal of raw, unwholesome fog in the +park. Then he had walked over to the hospital; and when the +investigation in Greenwich was concluded at last he had lost his +inclination for food. Not accustomed, as the doctors are, +to examine closely the mangled remains of human beings, he had +been shocked by the sight disclosed to his view when a waterproof +sheet had been lifted off a table in a certain apartment of the +hospital.</p> + +<p>Another waterproof sheet was spread over that table in the +manner of a table-cloth, with the corners turned up over a sort +of mound—a heap of rags, scorched and bloodstained, half +concealing what might have been an accumulation of raw material +for a cannibal feast. It required considerable firmness of +mind not to recoil before that sight. Chief Inspector Heat, +an efficient officer of his department, stood his ground, but for +a whole minute he did not advance. A local constable in +uniform cast a sidelong glance, and said, with stolid +simplicity:</p> + +<p>“He’s all there. Every bit of him. It +was a job.”</p> + +<p>He had been the first man on the spot after the +explosion. He mentioned the fact again. He had seen +something like a heavy flash of lightning in the fog. At +that time he was standing at the door of the King William Street +Lodge talking to the keeper. The concussion made him tingle +all over. He ran between the trees towards the +Observatory. “As fast as my legs would carry +me,” he repeated twice.</p> + +<p>Chief Inspector Heat, bending forward over the table in a +gingerly and horrified manner, let him run on. The hospital +porter and another man turned down the corners of the cloth, and +stepped aside. The Chief Inspector’s eyes searched +the gruesome detail of that heap of mixed things, which seemed to +have been collected in shambles and rag shops.</p> + +<p>“You used a shovel,” he remarked, observing a +sprinkling of small gravel, tiny brown bits of bark, and +particles of splintered wood as fine as needles.</p> + +<p>“Had to in one place,” said the stolid +constable. “I sent a keeper to fetch a spade. +When he heard me scraping the ground with it he leaned his +forehead against a tree, and was as sick as a dog.”</p> + +<p>The Chief Inspector, stooping guardedly over the table, fought +down the unpleasant sensation in his throat. The shattering +violence of destruction which had made of that body a heap of +nameless fragments affected his feelings with a sense of ruthless +cruelty, though his reason told him the effect must have been as +swift as a flash of lightning. The man, whoever he was, had +died instantaneously; and yet it seemed impossible to believe +that a human body could have reached that state of disintegration +without passing through the pangs of inconceivable agony. +No physiologist, and still less of a metaphysician, Chief +Inspector Heat rose by the force of sympathy, which is a form of +fear, above the vulgar conception of time. +Instantaneous! He remembered all he had ever read in +popular publications of long and terrifying dreams dreamed in the +instant of waking; of the whole past life lived with frightful +intensity by a drowning man as his doomed head bobs up, +streaming, for the last time. The inexplicable mysteries of +conscious existence beset Chief Inspector Heat till he evolved a +horrible notion that ages of atrocious pain and mental torture +could be contained between two successive winks of an eye. +And meantime the Chief Inspector went on, peering at the table +with a calm face and the slightly anxious attention of an +indigent customer bending over what may be called the by-products +of a butcher’s shop with a view to an inexpensive Sunday +dinner. All the time his trained faculties of an excellent +investigator, who scorns no chance of information, followed the +self-satisfied, disjointed loquacity of the constable.</p> + +<p>“A fair-haired fellow,” the last observed in a +placid tone, and paused. “The old woman who spoke to +the sergeant noticed a fair-haired fellow coming out of Maze Hill +Station.” He paused. “And he was a +fair-haired fellow. She noticed two men coming out of the +station after the uptrain had gone on,” he continued +slowly. “She couldn’t tell if they were +together. She took no particular notice of the big one, but +the other was a fair, slight chap, carrying a tin varnish can in +one hand.” The constable ceased.</p> + +<p>“Know the woman?” muttered the Chief Inspector, +with his eyes fixed on the table, and a vague notion in his mind +of an inquest to be held presently upon a person likely to remain +for ever unknown.</p> + +<p>“Yes. She’s housekeeper to a retired +publican, and attends the chapel in Park Place sometimes,” +the constable uttered weightily, and paused, with another oblique +glance at the table.</p> + +<p>Then suddenly: “Well, here he is—all of him I +could see. Fair. Slight—slight enough. +Look at that foot there. I picked up the legs first, one +after another. He was that scattered you didn’t know +where to begin.”</p> + +<p>The constable paused; the least flicker of an innocent +self-laudatory smile invested his round face with an infantile +expression.</p> + +<p>“Stumbled,” he announced positively. +“I stumbled once myself, and pitched on my head too, while +running up. Them roots do stick out all about the +place. Stumbled against the root of a tree and fell, and +that thing he was carrying must have gone off right under his +chest, I expect.”</p> + +<p>The echo of the words “Person unknown” repeating +itself in his inner consciousness bothered the Chief Inspector +considerably. He would have liked to trace this affair back +to its mysterious origin for his own information. He was +professionally curious. Before the public he would have +liked to vindicate the efficiency of his department by +establishing the identity of that man. He was a loyal +servant. That, however, appeared impossible. The +first term of the problem was unreadable—lacked all +suggestion but that of atrocious cruelty.</p> + +<p>Overcoming his physical repugnance, Chief Inspector Heat +stretched out his hand without conviction for the salving of his +conscience, and took up the least soiled of the rags. It +was a narrow strip of velvet with a larger triangular piece of +dark blue cloth hanging from it. He held it up to his eyes; +and the police constable spoke.</p> + +<p>“Velvet collar. Funny the old woman should have +noticed the velvet collar. Dark blue overcoat with a velvet +collar, she has told us. He was the chap she saw, and no +mistake. And here he is all complete, velvet collar and +all. I don’t think I missed a single piece as big as +a postage stamp.”</p> + +<p>At this point the trained faculties of the Chief Inspector +ceased to hear the voice of the constable. He moved to one +of the windows for better light. His face, averted from the +room, expressed a startled intense interest while he examined +closely the triangular piece of broad-cloth. By a sudden +jerk he detached it, and <i>only</i> after stuffing it into his +pocket turned round to the room, and flung the velvet collar back +on the table—</p> + +<p>“Cover up,” he directed the attendants curtly, +without another look, and, saluted by the constable, carried off +his spoil hastily.</p> + +<p>A convenient train whirled him up to town, alone and pondering +deeply, in a third-class compartment. That singed piece of +cloth was incredibly valuable, and he could not defend himself +from astonishment at the casual manner it had come into his +possession. It was as if Fate had thrust that clue into his +hands. And after the manner of the average man, whose +ambition is to command events, he began to mistrust such a +gratuitous and accidental success—just because it seemed +forced upon him. The practical value of success depends not +a little on the way you look at it. But Fate looks at +nothing. It has no discretion. He no longer +considered it eminently desirable all round to establish publicly +the identity of the man who had blown himself up that morning +with such horrible completeness. But he was not certain of +the view his department would take. A department is to +those it employs a complex personality with ideas and even fads +of its own. It depends on the loyal devotion of its +servants, and the devoted loyalty of trusted servants is +associated with a certain amount of affectionate contempt, which +keeps it sweet, as it were. By a benevolent provision of +Nature no man is a hero to his valet, or else the heroes would +have to brush their own clothes. Likewise no department +appears perfectly wise to the intimacy of its workers. A +department does not know so much as some of its servants. +Being a dispassionate organism, it can never be perfectly +informed. It would not be good for its efficiency to know +too much. Chief Inspector Heat got out of the train in a +state of thoughtfulness entirely untainted with disloyalty, but +not quite free of that jealous mistrust which so often springs on +the ground of perfect devotion, whether to women or to +institutions.</p> + +<p>It was in this mental disposition, physically very empty, but +still nauseated by what he had seen, that he had come upon the +Professor. Under these conditions which make for +irascibility in a sound, normal man, this meeting was specially +unwelcome to Chief Inspector Heat. He had not been thinking +of the Professor; he had not been thinking of any individual +anarchist at all. The complexion of that case had somehow +forced upon him the general idea of the absurdity of things +human, which in the abstract is sufficiently annoying to an +unphilosophical temperament, and in concrete instances becomes +exasperating beyond endurance. At the beginning of his +career Chief Inspector Heat had been concerned with the more +energetic forms of thieving. He had gained his spurs in +that sphere, and naturally enough had kept for it, after his +promotion to another department, a feeling not very far removed +from affection. Thieving was not a sheer absurdity. +It was a form of human industry, perverse indeed, but still an +industry exercised in an industrious world; it was work +undertaken for the same reason as the work in potteries, in coal +mines, in fields, in tool-grinding shops. It was labour, +whose practical difference from the other forms of labour +consisted in the nature of its risk, which did not lie in +ankylosis, or lead poisoning, or fire-damp, or gritty dust, but +in what may be briefly defined in its own special phraseology as +“Seven years hard.” Chief Inspector Heat was, +of course, not insensible to the gravity of moral +differences. But neither were the thieves he had been +looking after. They submitted to the severe sanctions of a +morality familiar to Chief Inspector Heat with a certain +resignation.</p> + +<p>They were his fellow-citizens gone wrong because of imperfect +education, Chief Inspector Heat believed; but allowing for that +difference, he could understand the mind of a burglar, because, +as a matter of fact, the mind and the instincts of a burglar are +of the same kind as the mind and the instincts of a police +officer. Both recognise the same conventions, and have a +working knowledge of each other’s methods and of the +routine of their respective trades. They understand each +other, which is advantageous to both, and establishes a sort of +amenity in their relations. Products of the same machine, +one classed as useful and the other as noxious, they take the +machine for granted in different ways, but with a seriousness +essentially the same. The mind of Chief Inspector Heat was +inaccessible to ideas of revolt. But his thieves were not +rebels. His bodily vigour, his cool inflexible manner, his +courage and his fairness, had secured for him much respect and +some adulation in the sphere of his early successes. He had +felt himself revered and admired. And Chief Inspector Heat, +arrested within six paces of the anarchist nick-named the +Professor, gave a thought of regret to the world of +thieves—sane, without morbid ideals, working by routine, +respectful of constituted authorities, free from all taint of +hate and despair.</p> + +<p>After paying this tribute to what is normal in the +constitution of society (for the idea of thieving appeared to his +instinct as normal as the idea of property), Chief Inspector Heat +felt very angry with himself for having stopped, for having +spoken, for having taken that way at all on the ground of it +being a short cut from the station to the headquarters. And +he spoke again in his big authoritative voice, which, being +moderated, had a threatening character.</p> + +<p>“You are not wanted, I tell you,” he repeated.</p> + +<p>The anarchist did not stir. An inward laugh of derision +uncovered not only his teeth but his gums as well, shook him all +over, without the slightest sound. Chief Inspector Heat was +led to add, against his better judgment:</p> + +<p>“Not yet. When I want you I will know where to +find you.”</p> + +<p>Those were perfectly proper words, within the tradition and +suitable to his character of a police officer addressing one of +his special flock. But the reception they got departed from +tradition and propriety. It was outrageous. The +stunted, weakly figure before him spoke at last.</p> + +<p>“I’ve no doubt the papers would give you an +obituary notice then. You know best what that would be +worth to you. I should think you can imagine easily the +sort of stuff that would be printed. But you may be exposed +to the unpleasantness of being buried together with me, though I +suppose your friends would make an effort to sort us out as much +as possible.”</p> + +<p>With all his healthy contempt for the spirit dictating such +speeches, the atrocious allusiveness of the words had its effect +on Chief Inspector Heat. He had too much insight, and too +much exact information as well, to dismiss them as rot. The +dusk of this narrow lane took on a sinister tint from the dark, +frail little figure, its back to the wall, and speaking with a +weak, self-confident voice. To the vigorous, tenacious +vitality of the Chief Inspector, the physical wretchedness of +that being, so obviously not fit to live, was ominous; for it +seemed to him that if he had the misfortune to be such a +miserable object he would not have cared how soon he died. +Life had such a strong hold upon him that a fresh wave of nausea +broke out in slight perspiration upon his brow. The murmur +of town life, the subdued rumble of wheels in the two invisible +streets to the right and left, came through the curve of the +sordid lane to his ears with a precious familiarity and an +appealing sweetness. He was human. But Chief +Inspector Heat was also a man, and he could not let such words +pass.</p> + +<p>“All this is good to frighten children with,” he +said. “I’ll have you yet.”</p> + +<p>It was very well said, without scorn, with an almost austere +quietness.</p> + +<p>“Doubtless,” was the answer; “but +there’s no time like the present, believe me. For a +man of real convictions this is a fine opportunity of +self-sacrifice. You may not find another so favourable, so +humane. There isn’t even a cat near us, and these +condemned old houses would make a good heap of bricks where you +stand. You’ll never get me at so little cost to life +and property, which you are paid to protect.”</p> + +<p>“You don’t know who you’re speaking +to,” said Chief Inspector Heat firmly. “If I +were to lay my hands on you now I would be no better than +yourself.”</p> + +<p>“Ah! The game!’</p> + +<p>“You may be sure our side will win in the end. It +may yet be necessary to make people believe that some of you +ought to be shot at sight like mad dogs. Then that will be +the game. But I’ll be damned if I know what yours +is. I don’t believe you know yourselves. +You’ll never get anything by it.”</p> + +<p>“Meantime it’s you who get something from +it—so far. And you get it easily, too. I +won’t speak of your salary, but haven’t you made your +name simply by not understanding what we are after?”</p> + +<p>“What are you after, then?” asked Chief Inspector +Heat, with scornful haste, like a man in a hurry who perceives he +is wasting his time.</p> + +<p>The perfect anarchist answered by a smile which did not part +his thin colourless lips; and the celebrated Chief Inspector felt +a sense of superiority which induced him to raise a warning +finger.</p> + +<p>“Give it up—whatever it is,” he said in an +admonishing tone, but not so kindly as if he were condescending +to give good advice to a cracksman of repute. “Give +it up. You’ll find we are too many for +you.”</p> + +<p>The fixed smile on the Professor’s lips wavered, as if +the mocking spirit within had lost its assurance. Chief +Inspector Heat went on:</p> + +<p>“Don’t you believe me eh? Well, you’ve +only got to look about you. We are. And anyway, +you’re not doing it well. You’re always making +a mess of it. Why, if the thieves didn’t know their +work better they would starve.”</p> + +<p>The hint of an invincible multitude behind that man’s +back roused a sombre indignation in the breast of the +Professor. He smiled no longer his enigmatic and mocking +smile. The resisting power of numbers, the unattackable +stolidity of a great multitude, was the haunting fear of his +sinister loneliness. His lips trembled for some time before +he managed to say in a strangled voice:</p> + +<p>“I am doing my work better than you’re doing +yours.”</p> + +<p>“That’ll do now,” interrupted Chief +Inspector Heat hurriedly; and the Professor laughed right out +this time. While still laughing he moved on; but he did not +laugh long. It was a sad-faced, miserable little man who +emerged from the narrow passage into the bustle of the broad +thoroughfare. He walked with the nerveless gait of a tramp +going on, still going on, indifferent to rain or sun in a +sinister detachment from the aspects of sky and earth. +Chief Inspector Heat, on the other hand, after watching him for a +while, stepped out with the purposeful briskness of a man +disregarding indeed the inclemencies of the weather, but +conscious of having an authorised mission on this earth and the +moral support of his kind. All the inhabitants of the +immense town, the population of the whole country, and even the +teeming millions struggling upon the planet, were with +him—down to the very thieves and mendicants. Yes, the +thieves themselves were sure to be with him in his present +work. The consciousness of universal support in his general +activity heartened him to grapple with the particular +problem.</p> + +<p>The problem immediately before the Chief Inspector was that of +managing the Assistant Commissioner of his department, his +immediate superior. This is the perennial problem of trusty +and loyal servants; anarchism gave it its particular complexion, +but nothing more. Truth to say, Chief Inspector Heat +thought but little of anarchism. He did not attach undue +importance to it, and could never bring himself to consider it +seriously. It had more the character of disorderly conduct; +disorderly without the human excuse of drunkenness, which at any +rate implies good feeling and an amiable leaning towards +festivity. As criminals, anarchists were distinctly no +class—no class at all. And recalling the Professor, +Chief Inspector Heat, without checking his swinging pace, +muttered through his teeth:</p> + +<p>“Lunatic.”</p> + +<p>Catching thieves was another matter altogether. It had +that quality of seriousness belonging to every form of open sport +where the best man wins under perfectly comprehensible +rules. There were no rules for dealing with +anarchists. And that was distasteful to the Chief +Inspector. It was all foolishness, but that foolishness +excited the public mind, affected persons in high places, and +touched upon international relations. A hard, merciless +contempt settled rigidly on the Chief Inspector’s face as +he walked on. His mind ran over all the anarchists of his +flock. Not one of them had half the spunk of this or that +burglar he had known. Not half—not one-tenth.</p> + +<p>At headquarters the Chief Inspector was admitted at once to +the Assistant Commissioner’s private room. He found +him, pen in hand, bent over a great table bestrewn with papers, +as if worshipping an enormous double inkstand of bronze and +crystal. Speaking tubes resembling snakes were tied by the +heads to the back of the Assistant Commissioner’s wooden +arm-chair, and their gaping mouths seemed ready to bite his +elbows. And in this attitude he raised only his eyes, whose +lids were darker than his face and very much creased. The +reports had come in: every anarchist had been exactly accounted +for.</p> + +<p>After saying this he lowered his eyes, signed rapidly two +single sheets of paper, and only then laid down his pen, and sat +well back, directing an inquiring gaze at his renowned +subordinate. The Chief Inspector stood it well, deferential +but inscrutable.</p> + +<p>“I daresay you were right,” said the Assistant +Commissioner, “in telling me at first that the London +anarchists had nothing to do with this. I quite appreciate +the excellent watch kept on them by your men. On the other +hand, this, for the public, does not amount to more than a +confession of ignorance.”</p> + +<p>The Assistant Commissioner’s delivery was leisurely, as +it were cautious. His thought seemed to rest poised on a +word before passing to another, as though words had been the +stepping-stones for his intellect picking its way across the +waters of error. “Unless you have brought something +useful from Greenwich,” he added.</p> + +<p>The Chief Inspector began at once the account of his +investigation in a clear matter-of-fact manner. His +superior turning his chair a little, and crossing his thin legs, +leaned sideways on his elbow, with one hand shading his +eyes. His listening attitude had a sort of angular and +sorrowful grace. Gleams as of highly burnished silver +played on the sides of his ebony black head when he inclined it +slowly at the end.</p> + +<p>Chief Inspector Heat waited with the appearance of turning +over in his mind all he had just said, but, as a matter of fact, +considering the advisability of saying something more. The +Assistant Commissioner cut his hesitation short.</p> + +<p>“You believe there were two men?” he asked, +without uncovering his eyes.</p> + +<p>The Chief Inspector thought it more than probable. In +his opinion, the two men had parted from each other within a +hundred yards from the Observatory walls. He explained also +how the other man could have got out of the park speedily without +being observed. The fog, though not very dense, was in his +favour. He seemed to have escorted the other to the spot, +and then to have left him there to do the job +single-handed. Taking the time those two were seen coming +out of Maze Hill Station by the old woman, and the time when the +explosion was heard, the Chief Inspector thought that the other +man might have been actually at the Greenwich Park Station, ready +to catch the next train up, at the moment his comrade was +destroying himself so thoroughly.</p> + +<p>“Very thoroughly—eh?” murmured the Assistant +Commissioner from under the shadow of his hand.</p> + +<p>The Chief Inspector in a few vigorous words described the +aspect of the remains. “The coroner’s jury will +have a treat,” he added grimly.</p> + +<p>The Assistant Commissioner uncovered his eyes.</p> + +<p>“We shall have nothing to tell them,” he remarked +languidly.</p> + +<p>He looked up, and for a time watched the markedly +non-committal attitude of his Chief Inspector. His nature +was one that is not easily accessible to illusions. He knew +that a department is at the mercy of its subordinate officers, +who have their own conceptions of loyalty. His career had +begun in a tropical colony. He had liked his work +there. It was police work. He had been very +successful in tracking and breaking up certain nefarious secret +societies amongst the natives. Then he took his long leave, +and got married rather impulsively. It was a good match +from a worldly point of view, but his wife formed an unfavourable +opinion of the colonial climate on hearsay evidence. On the +other hand, she had influential connections. It was an +excellent match. But he did not like the work he had to do +now. He felt himself dependent on too many subordinates and +too many masters. The near presence of that strange +emotional phenomenon called public opinion weighed upon his +spirits, and alarmed him by its irrational nature. No doubt +that from ignorance he exaggerated to himself its power for good +and evil—especially for evil; and the rough east winds of +the English spring (which agreed with his wife) augmented his +general mistrust of men’s motives and of the efficiency of +their organisation. The futility of office work especially +appalled him on those days so trying to his sensitive liver.</p> + +<p>He got up, unfolding himself to his full height, and with a +heaviness of step remarkable in so slender a man, moved across +the room to the window. The panes streamed with rain, and +the short street he looked down into lay wet and empty, as if +swept clear suddenly by a great flood. It was a very trying +day, choked in raw fog to begin with, and now drowned in cold +rain. The flickering, blurred flames of gas-lamps seemed to +be dissolving in a watery atmosphere. And the lofty +pretensions of a mankind oppressed by the miserable indignities +of the weather appeared as a colossal and hopeless vanity +deserving of scorn, wonder, and compassion.</p> + +<p>“Horrible, horrible!” thought the Assistant +Commissioner to himself, with his face near the +window-pane. “We have been having this sort of thing +now for ten days; no, a fortnight—a fortnight.” +He ceased to think completely for a time. That utter +stillness of his brain lasted about three seconds. Then he +said perfunctorily: “You have set inquiries on foot for +tracing that other man up and down the line?”</p> + +<p>He had no doubt that everything needful had been done. +Chief Inspector Heat knew, of course, thoroughly the business of +man-hunting. And these were the routine steps, too, that +would be taken as a matter of course by the merest +beginner. A few inquiries amongst the ticket collectors and +the porters of the two small railway stations would give +additional details as to the appearance of the two men; the +inspection of the collected tickets would show at once where they +came from that morning. It was elementary, and could not +have been neglected. Accordingly the Chief Inspector +answered that all this had been done directly the old woman had +come forward with her deposition. And he mentioned the name +of a station. “That’s where they came from, +sir,” he went on. “The porter who took the +tickets at Maze Hill remembers two chaps answering to the +description passing the barrier. They seemed to him two +respectable working men of a superior sort—sign painters or +house decorators. The big man got out of a third-class +compartment backward, with a bright tin can in his hand. On +the platform he gave it to carry to the fair young fellow who +followed him. All this agrees exactly with what the old +woman told the police sergeant in Greenwich.”</p> + +<p>The Assistant Commissioner, still with his face turned to the +window, expressed his doubt as to these two men having had +anything to do with the outrage. All this theory rested +upon the utterances of an old charwoman who had been nearly +knocked down by a man in a hurry. Not a very substantial +authority indeed, unless on the ground of sudden inspiration, +which was hardly tenable.</p> + +<p>“Frankly now, could she have been really +inspired?” he queried, with grave irony, keeping his back +to the room, as if entranced by the contemplation of the +town’s colossal forms half lost in the night. He did +not even look round when he heard the mutter of the word +“Providential” from the principal subordinate of his +department, whose name, printed sometimes in the papers, was +familiar to the great public as that of one of its zealous and +hard-working protectors. Chief Inspector Heat raised his +voice a little.</p> + +<p>“Strips and bits of bright tin were quite visible to +me,” he said. “That’s a pretty good +corroboration.”</p> + +<p>“And these men came from that little country +station,” the Assistant Commissioner mused aloud, +wondering. He was told that such was the name on two +tickets out of three given up out of that train at Maze +Hill. The third person who got out was a hawker from +Gravesend well known to the porters. The Chief Inspector +imparted that information in a tone of finality with some ill +humour, as loyal servants will do in the consciousness of their +fidelity and with the sense of the value of their loyal +exertions. And still the Assistant Commissioner did not +turn away from the darkness outside, as vast as a sea.</p> + +<p>“Two foreign anarchists coming from that place,” +he said, apparently to the window-pane. “It’s +rather unaccountable.”’</p> + +<p>“Yes, sir. But it would be still more +unaccountable if that Michaelis weren’t staying in a +cottage in the neighbourhood.”</p> + +<p>At the sound of that name, falling unexpectedly into this +annoying affair, the Assistant Commissioner dismissed brusquely +the vague remembrance of his daily whist party at his club. +It was the most comforting habit of his life, in a mainly +successful display of his skill without the assistance of any +subordinate. He entered his club to play from five to +seven, before going home to dinner, forgetting for those two +hours whatever was distasteful in his life, as though the game +were a beneficent drug for allaying the pangs of moral +discontent. His partners were the gloomily humorous editor +of a celebrated magazine; a silent, elderly barrister with +malicious little eyes; and a highly martial, simple-minded old +Colonel with nervous brown hands. They were his club +acquaintances merely. He never met them elsewhere except at +the card-table. But they all seemed to approach the game in +the spirit of co-sufferers, as if it were indeed a drug against +the secret ills of existence; and every day as the sun declined +over the countless roofs of the town, a mellow, pleasurable +impatience, resembling the impulse of a sure and profound +friendship, lightened his professional labours. And now +this pleasurable sensation went out of him with something +resembling a physical shock, and was replaced by a special kind +of interest in his work of social protection—an improper +sort of interest, which may be defined best as a sudden and alert +mistrust of the weapon in his hand.</p> + +<h2>CHAPTER VI</h2> + +<p>The lady patroness of Michaelis, the ticket-of-leave apostle +of humanitarian hopes, was one of the most influential and +distinguished connections of the Assistant Commissioner’s +wife, whom she called Annie, and treated still rather as a not +very wise and utterly inexperienced young girl. But she had +consented to accept him on a friendly footing, which was by no +means the case with all of his wife’s influential +connections. Married young and splendidly at some remote +epoch of the past, she had had for a time a close view of great +affairs and even of some great men. She herself was a great +lady. Old now in the number of her years, she had that sort +of exceptional temperament which defies time with scornful +disregard, as if it were a rather vulgar convention submitted to +by the mass of inferior mankind. Many other conventions +easier to set aside, alas! failed to obtain her recognition, also +on temperamental grounds—either because they bored her, or +else because they stood in the way of her scorns and +sympathies. Admiration was a sentiment unknown to her (it +was one of the secret griefs of her most noble husband against +her)—first, as always more or less tainted with mediocrity, +and next as being in a way an admission of inferiority. And +both were frankly inconceivable to her nature. To be +fearlessly outspoken in her opinions came easily to her, since +she judged solely from the standpoint of her social +position. She was equally untrammelled in her actions; and +as her tactfulness proceeded from genuine humanity, her bodily +vigour remained remarkable and her superiority was serene and +cordial, three generations had admired her infinitely, and the +last she was likely to see had pronounced her a wonderful +woman. Meantime intelligent, with a sort of lofty +simplicity, and curious at heart, but not like many women merely +of social gossip, she amused her age by attracting within her ken +through the power of her great, almost historical, social +prestige everything that rose above the dead level of mankind, +lawfully or unlawfully, by position, wit, audacity, fortune or +misfortune. Royal Highnesses, artists, men of science, +young statesmen, and charlatans of all ages and conditions, who, +unsubstantial and light, bobbing up like corks, show best the +direction of the surface currents, had been welcomed in that +house, listened to, penetrated, understood, appraised, for her +own edification. In her own words, she liked to watch what +the world was coming to. And as she had a practical mind +her judgment of men and things, though based on special +prejudices, was seldom totally wrong, and almost never +wrong-headed. Her drawing-room was probably the only place +in the wide world where an Assistant Commissioner of Police could +meet a convict liberated on a ticket-of-leave on other than +professional and official ground. Who had brought Michaelis +there one afternoon the Assistant Commissioner did not remember +very well. He had a notion it must have been a certain +Member of Parliament of illustrious parentage and unconventional +sympathies, which were the standing joke of the comic +papers. The notabilities and even the simple notorieties of +the day brought each other freely to that temple of an old +woman’s not ignoble curiosity. You never could guess +whom you were likely to come upon being received in semi-privacy +within the faded blue silk and gilt frame screen, making a cosy +nook for a couch and a few arm-chairs in the great drawing-room, +with its hum of voices and the groups of people seated or +standing in the light of six tall windows.</p> + +<p>Michaelis had been the object of a revulsion of popular +sentiment, the same sentiment which years ago had applauded the +ferocity of the life sentence passed upon him for complicity in a +rather mad attempt to rescue some prisoners from a police +van. The plan of the conspirators had been to shoot down +the horses and overpower the escort. Unfortunately, one of +the police constables got shot too. He left a wife and +three small children, and the death of that man aroused through +the length and breadth of a realm for whose defence, welfare, and +glory men die every day as matter of duty, an outburst of furious +indignation, of a raging implacable pity for the victim. +Three ring-leaders got hanged. Michaelis, young and slim, +locksmith by trade, and great frequenter of evening schools, did +not even know that anybody had been killed, his part with a few +others being to force open the door at the back of the special +conveyance. When arrested he had a bunch of skeleton keys +in one pocket, a heavy chisel in another, and a short crowbar in +his hand: neither more nor less than a burglar. But no +burglar would have received such a heavy sentence. The +death of the constable had made him miserable at heart, but the +failure of the plot also. He did not conceal either of +these sentiments from his empanelled countrymen, and that sort of +compunction appeared shockingly imperfect to the crammed +court. The judge on passing sentence commented feelingly +upon the depravity and callousness of the young prisoner.</p> + +<p>That made the groundless fame of his condemnation; the fame of +his release was made for him on no better grounds by people who +wished to exploit the sentimental aspect of his imprisonment +either for purposes of their own or for no intelligible +purpose. He let them do so in the innocence of his heart +and the simplicity of his mind. Nothing that happened to +him individually had any importance. He was like those +saintly men whose personality is lost in the contemplation of +their faith. His ideas were not in the nature of +convictions. They were inaccessible to reasoning. +They formed in all their contradictions and obscurities an +invincible and humanitarian creed, which he confessed rather than +preached, with an obstinate gentleness, a smile of pacific +assurance on his lips, and his candid blue eyes cast down because +the sight of faces troubled his inspiration developed in +solitude. In that characteristic attitude, pathetic in his +grotesque and incurable obesity which he had to drag like a +galley slave’s bullet to the end of his days, the Assistant +Commissioner of Police beheld the ticket-of-leave apostle filling +a privileged arm-chair within the screen. He sat there by +the head of the old lady’s couch, mild-voiced and quiet, +with no more self-consciousness than a very small child, and with +something of a child’s charm—the appealing charm of +trustfulness. Confident of the future, whose secret ways +had been revealed to him within the four walls of a well-known +penitentiary, he had no reason to look with suspicion upon +anybody. If he could not give the great and curious lady a +very definite idea as to what the world was coming to, he had +managed without effort to impress her by his unembittered faith, +by the sterling quality of his optimism.</p> + +<p>A certain simplicity of thought is common to serene souls at +both ends of the social scale. The great lady was simple in +her own way. His views and beliefs had nothing in them to +shock or startle her, since she judged them from the standpoint +of her lofty position. Indeed, her sympathies were easily +accessible to a man of that sort. She was not an exploiting +capitalist herself; she was, as it were, above the play of +economic conditions. And she had a great capacity of pity +for the more obvious forms of common human miseries, precisely +because she was such a complete stranger to them that she had to +translate her conception into terms of mental suffering before +she could grasp the notion of their cruelty. The Assistant +Commissioner remembered very well the conversation between these +two. He had listened in silence. It was something as +exciting in a way, and even touching in its foredoomed futility, +as the efforts at moral intercourse between the inhabitants of +remote planets. But this grotesque incarnation of +humanitarian passion appealed somehow, to one’s +imagination. At last Michaelis rose, and taking the great +lady’s extended hand, shook it, retained it for a moment in +his great cushioned palm with unembarrassed friendliness, and +turned upon the semi-private nook of the drawing-room his back, +vast and square, and as if distended under the short tweed +jacket. Glancing about in serene benevolence, he waddled +along to the distant door between the knots of other +visitors. The murmur of conversations paused on his +passage. He smiled innocently at a tall, brilliant girl, +whose eyes met his accidentally, and went out unconscious of the +glances following him across the room. Michaelis’ +first appearance in the world was a success—a success of +esteem unmarred by a single murmur of derision. The +interrupted conversations were resumed in their proper tone, +grave or light. Only a well-set-up, long-limbed, +active-looking man of forty talking with two ladies near a window +remarked aloud, with an unexpected depth of feeling: +“Eighteen stone, I should say, and not five foot six. +Poor fellow! It’s terrible—terrible.”</p> + +<p>The lady of the house, gazing absently at the Assistant +Commissioner, left alone with her on the private side of the +screen, seemed to be rearranging her mental impressions behind +her thoughtful immobility of a handsome old face. Men with +grey moustaches and full, healthy, vaguely smiling countenances +approached, circling round the screen; two mature women with a +matronly air of gracious resolution; a clean-shaved individual +with sunken cheeks, and dangling a gold-mounted eyeglass on a +broad black ribbon with an old-world, dandified effect. A +silence deferential, but full of reserves, reigned for a moment, +and then the great lady exclaimed, not with resentment, but with +a sort of protesting indignation:</p> + +<p>“And that officially is supposed to be a +revolutionist! What nonsense.” She looked hard +at the Assistant Commissioner, who murmured apologetically:</p> + +<p>“Not a dangerous one perhaps.”</p> + +<p>“Not dangerous—I should think not indeed. He +is a mere believer. It’s the temperament of a +saint,” declared the great lady in a firm tone. +“And they kept him shut up for twenty years. One +shudders at the stupidity of it. And now they have let him +out everybody belonging to him is gone away somewhere or +dead. His parents are dead; the girl he was to marry has +died while he was in prison; he has lost the skill necessary for +his manual occupation. He told me all this himself with the +sweetest patience; but then, he said, he had had plenty of time +to think out things for himself. A pretty +compensation! If that’s the stuff revolutionists are +made of some of us may well go on their knees to them,” she +continued in a slightly bantering voice, while the banal society +smiles hardened on the worldly faces turned towards her with +conventional deference. “The poor creature is +obviously no longer in a position to take care of himself. +Somebody will have to look after him a little.”</p> + +<p>“He should be recommended to follow a treatment of some +sort,” the soldierly voice of the active-looking man was +heard advising earnestly from a distance. He was in the +pink of condition for his age, and even the texture of his long +frock coat had a character of elastic soundness, as if it were a +living tissue. “The man is virtually a +cripple,” he added with unmistakable feeling.</p> + +<p>Other voices, as if glad of the opening, murmured hasty +compassion. “Quite startling,” +“Monstrous,” “Most painful to see.” +The lank man, with the eyeglass on a broad ribbon, pronounced +mincingly the word “Grotesque,” whose justness was +appreciated by those standing near him. They smiled at each +other.</p> + +<p>The Assistant Commissioner had expressed no opinion either +then or later, his position making it impossible for him to +ventilate any independent view of a ticket-of-leave +convict. But, in truth, he shared the view of his +wife’s friend and patron that Michaelis was a humanitarian +sentimentalist, a little mad, but upon the whole incapable of +hurting a fly intentionally. So when that name cropped up +suddenly in this vexing bomb affair he realised all the danger of +it for the ticket-of-leave apostle, and his mind reverted at once +to the old lady’s well-established infatuation. Her +arbitrary kindness would not brook patiently any interference +with Michaelis’ freedom. It was a deep, calm, +convinced infatuation. She had not only felt him to be +inoffensive, but she had said so, which last by a confusion of +her absolutist mind became a sort of incontrovertible +demonstration. It was as if the monstrosity of the man, +with his candid infant’s eyes and a fat angelic smile, had +fascinated her. She had come to believe almost his theory +of the future, since it was not repugnant to her +prejudices. She disliked the new element of plutocracy in +the social compound, and industrialism as a method of human +development appeared to her singularly repulsive in its +mechanical and unfeeling character. The humanitarian hopes +of the mild Michaelis tended not towards utter destruction, but +merely towards the complete economic ruin of the system. +And she did not really see where was the moral harm of it. +It would do away with all the multitude of the +“parvenus,” whom she disliked and mistrusted, not +because they had arrived anywhere (she denied that), but because +of their profound unintelligence of the world, which was the +primary cause of the crudity of their perceptions and the aridity +of their hearts. With the annihilation of all capital they +would vanish too; but universal ruin (providing it was universal, +as it was revealed to Michaelis) would leave the social values +untouched. The disappearance of the last piece of money +could not affect people of position. She could not conceive +how it could affect her position, for instance. She had +developed these discoveries to the Assistant Commissioner with +all the serene fearlessness of an old woman who had escaped the +blight of indifference. He had made for himself the rule to +receive everything of that sort in a silence which he took care +from policy and inclination not to make offensive. He had +an affection for the aged disciple of Michaelis, a complex +sentiment depending a little on her prestige, on her personality, +but most of all on the instinct of flattered gratitude. He +felt himself really liked in her house. She was kindness +personified. And she was practically wise too, after the +manner of experienced women. She made his married life much +easier than it would have been without her generously full +recognition of his rights as Annie’s husband. Her +influence upon his wife, a woman devoured by all sorts of small +selfishnesses, small envies, small jealousies, was +excellent. Unfortunately, both her kindness and her wisdom +were of unreasonable complexion, distinctly feminine, and +difficult to deal with. She remained a perfect woman all +along her full tale of years, and not as some of them do +become—a sort of slippery, pestilential old man in +petticoats. And it was as of a woman that he thought of +her—the specially choice incarnation of the feminine, +wherein is recruited the tender, ingenuous, and fierce bodyguard +for all sorts of men who talk under the influence of an emotion, +true or fraudulent; for preachers, seers, prophets, or +reformers.</p> + +<p>Appreciating the distinguished and good friend of his wife, +and himself, in that way, the Assistant Commissioner became +alarmed at the convict Michaelis’ possible fate. Once +arrested on suspicion of being in some way, however remote, a +party to this outrage, the man could hardly escape being sent +back to finish his sentence at least. And that would kill +him; he would never come out alive. The Assistant +Commissioner made a reflection extremely unbecoming his official +position without being really creditable to his humanity.</p> + +<p>“If the fellow is laid hold of again,” he thought, +“she will never forgive me.”</p> + +<p>The frankness of such a secretly outspoken thought could not +go without some derisive self-criticism. No man engaged in +a work he does not like can preserve many saving illusions about +himself. The distaste, the absence of glamour, extend from +the occupation to the personality. It is only when our +appointed activities seem by a lucky accident to obey the +particular earnestness of our temperament that we can taste the +comfort of complete self-deception. The Assistant +Commissioner did not like his work at home. The police work +he had been engaged on in a distant part of the globe had the +saving character of an irregular sort of warfare or at least the +risk and excitement of open-air sport. His real abilities, +which were mainly of an administrative order, were combined with +an adventurous disposition. Chained to a desk in the thick +of four millions of men, he considered himself the victim of an +ironic fate—the same, no doubt, which had brought about his +marriage with a woman exceptionally sensitive in the matter of +colonial climate, besides other limitations testifying to the +delicacy of her nature—and her tastes. Though he +judged his alarm sardonically he did not dismiss the improper +thought from his mind. The instinct of self-preservation +was strong within him. On the contrary, he repeated it +mentally with profane emphasis and a fuller precision: +“Damn it! If that infernal Heat has his way the +fellow’ll die in prison smothered in his fat, and +she’ll never forgive me.”</p> + +<p>His black, narrow figure, with the white band of the collar +under the silvery gleams on the close-cropped hair at the back of +the head, remained motionless. The silence had lasted such +a long time that Chief Inspector Heat ventured to clear his +throat. This noise produced its effect. The zealous +and intelligent officer was asked by his superior, whose back +remained turned to him immovably:</p> + +<p>“You connect Michaelis with this affair?”</p> + +<p>Chief Inspector Heat was very positive, but cautious.</p> + +<p>“Well, sir,” he said, “we have enough to go +upon. A man like that has no business to be at large, +anyhow.”</p> + +<p>“You will want some conclusive evidence,” came the +observation in a murmur.</p> + +<p>Chief Inspector Heat raised his eyebrows at the black, narrow +back, which remained obstinately presented to his intelligence +and his zeal.</p> + +<p>“There will be no difficulty in getting up sufficient +evidence against <i>him</i>,” he said, with virtuous +complacency. “You may trust me for that, sir,” +he added, quite unnecessarily, out of the fulness of his heart; +for it seemed to him an excellent thing to have that man in hand +to be thrown down to the public should it think fit to roar with +any special indignation in this case. It was impossible to +say yet whether it would roar or not. That in the last +instance depended, of course, on the newspaper press. But +in any case, Chief Inspector Heat, purveyor of prisons by trade, +and a man of legal instincts, did logically believe that +incarceration was the proper fate for every declared enemy of the +law. In the strength of that conviction he committed a +fault of tact. He allowed himself a little conceited laugh, +and repeated:</p> + +<p>“Trust me for that, sir.”</p> + +<p>This was too much for the forced calmness under which the +Assistant Commissioner had for upwards of eighteen months +concealed his irritation with the system and the subordinates of +his office. A square peg forced into a round hole, he had +felt like a daily outrage that long established smooth roundness +into which a man of less sharply angular shape would have fitted +himself, with voluptuous acquiescence, after a shrug or +two. What he resented most was just the necessity of taking +so much on trust. At the little laugh of Chief Inspector +Heat’s he spun swiftly on his heels, as if whirled away +from the window-pane by an electric shock. He caught on the +latter’s face not only the complacency proper to the +occasion lurking under the moustache, but the vestiges of +experimental watchfulness in the round eyes, which had been, no +doubt, fastened on his back, and now met his glance for a second +before the intent character of their stare had the time to change +to a merely startled appearance.</p> + +<p>The Assistant Commissioner of Police had really some +qualifications for his post. Suddenly his suspicion was +awakened. It is but fair to say that his suspicions of the +police methods (unless the police happened to be a semi-military +body organised by himself) was not difficult to arouse. If +it ever slumbered from sheer weariness, it was but lightly; and +his appreciation of Chief Inspector Heat’s zeal and +ability, moderate in itself, excluded all notion of moral +confidence. “He’s up to something,” he +exclaimed mentally, and at once became angry. Crossing over +to his desk with headlong strides, he sat down violently. +“Here I am stuck in a litter of paper,” he reflected, +with unreasonable resentment, “supposed to hold all the +threads in my hands, and yet I can but hold what is put in my +hand, and nothing else. And they can fasten the other ends +of the threads where they please.”</p> + +<p>He raised his head, and turned towards his subordinate a long, +meagre face with the accentuated features of an energetic Don +Quixote.</p> + +<p>“Now what is it you’ve got up your +sleeve?”</p> + +<p>The other stared. He stared without winking in a perfect +immobility of his round eyes, as he was used to stare at the +various members of the criminal class when, after being duly +cautioned, they made their statements in the tones of injured +innocence, or false simplicity, or sullen resignation. But +behind that professional and stony fixity there was some surprise +too, for in such a tone, combining nicely the note of contempt +and impatience, Chief Inspector Heat, the right-hand man of the +department, was not used to be addressed. He began in a +procrastinating manner, like a man taken unawares by a new and +unexpected experience.</p> + +<p>“What I’ve got against that man Michaelis you +mean, sir?”</p> + +<p>The Assistant Commissioner watched the bullet head; the points +of that Norse rover’s moustache, falling below the line of +the heavy jaw; the whole full and pale physiognomy, whose +determined character was marred by too much flesh; at the cunning +wrinkles radiating from the outer corners of the eyes—and +in that purposeful contemplation of the valuable and trusted +officer he drew a conviction so sudden that it moved him like an +inspiration.</p> + +<p>“I have reason to think that when you came into this +room,” he said in measured tones, “it was not +Michaelis who was in your mind; not principally—perhaps not +at all.”</p> + +<p>“You have reason to think, sir?” muttered Chief +Inspector Heat, with every appearance of astonishment, which up +to a certain point was genuine enough. He had discovered in +this affair a delicate and perplexing side, forcing upon the +discoverer a certain amount of insincerity—that sort of +insincerity which, under the names of skill, prudence, +discretion, turns up at one point or another in most human +affairs. He felt at the moment like a tight-rope artist +might feel if suddenly, in the middle of the performance, the +manager of the Music Hall were to rush out of the proper +managerial seclusion and begin to shake the rope. +Indignation, the sense of moral insecurity engendered by such a +treacherous proceeding joined to the immediate apprehension of a +broken neck, would, in the colloquial phrase, put him in a +state. And there would be also some scandalised concern for +his art too, since a man must identify himself with something +more tangible than his own personality, and establish his pride +somewhere, either in his social position, or in the quality of +the work he is obliged to do, or simply in the superiority of the +idleness he may be fortunate enough to enjoy.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” said the Assistant Commissioner; “I +have. I do not mean to say that you have not thought of +Michaelis at all. But you are giving the fact you’ve +mentioned a prominence which strikes me as not quite candid, +Inspector Heat. If that is really the track of discovery, +why haven’t you followed it up at once, either personally +or by sending one of your men to that village?”</p> + +<p>“Do you think, sir, I have failed in my duty +there?” the Chief Inspector asked, in a tone which he +sought to make simply reflective. Forced unexpectedly to +concentrate his faculties upon the task of preserving his +balance, he had seized upon that point, and exposed himself to a +rebuke; for, the Assistant Commissioner frowning slightly, +observed that this was a very improper remark to make.</p> + +<p>“But since you’ve made it,” he continued +coldly, “I’ll tell you that this is not my +meaning.”</p> + +<p>He paused, with a straight glance of his sunken eyes which was +a full equivalent of the unspoken termination “and you know +it.” The head of the so-called Special Crimes +Department debarred by his position from going out of doors +personally in quest of secrets locked up in guilty breasts, had a +propensity to exercise his considerable gifts for the detection +of incriminating truth upon his own subordinates. That +peculiar instinct could hardly be called a weakness. It was +natural. He was a born detective. It had +unconsciously governed his choice of a career, and if it ever +failed him in life it was perhaps in the one exceptional +circumstance of his marriage—which was also natural. +It fed, since it could not roam abroad, upon the human material +which was brought to it in its official seclusion. We can +never cease to be ourselves.</p> + +<p>His elbow on the desk, his thin legs crossed, and nursing his +cheek in the palm of his meagre hand, the Assistant Commissioner +in charge of the Special Crimes branch was getting hold of the +case with growing interest. His Chief Inspector, if not an +absolutely worthy foeman of his penetration, was at any rate the +most worthy of all within his reach. A mistrust of +established reputations was strictly in character with the +Assistant Commissioner’s ability as detector. His +memory evoked a certain old fat and wealthy native chief in the +distant colony whom it was a tradition for the successive +Colonial Governors to trust and make much of as a firm friend and +supporter of the order and legality established by white men; +whereas, when examined sceptically, he was found out to be +principally his own good friend, and nobody else’s. +Not precisely a traitor, but still a man of many dangerous +reservations in his fidelity, caused by a due regard for his own +advantage, comfort, and safety. A fellow of some innocence +in his naive duplicity, but none the less dangerous. He +took some finding out. He was physically a big man, too, +and (allowing for the difference of colour, of course) Chief +Inspector Heat’s appearance recalled him to the memory of +his superior. It was not the eyes nor yet the lips +exactly. It was bizarre. But does not Alfred Wallace +relate in his famous book on the Malay Archipelago how, amongst +the Aru Islanders, he discovered in an old and naked savage with +a sooty skin a peculiar resemblance to a dear friend at home?</p> + +<p>For the first time since he took up his appointment the +Assistant Commissioner felt as if he were going to do some real +work for his salary. And that was a pleasurable +sensation. “I’ll turn him inside out like an +old glove,” thought the Assistant Commissioner, with his +eyes resting pensively upon Chief Inspector Heat.</p> + +<p>“No, that was not my thought,” he began +again. “There is no doubt about you knowing your +business—no doubt at all; and that’s precisely why +I—” He stopped short, and changing his tone: +“What could you bring up against Michaelis of a definite +nature? I mean apart from the fact that the two men under +suspicion—you’re certain there were two of +them—came last from a railway station within three miles of +the village where Michaelis is living now.”</p> + +<p>“This by itself is enough for us to go upon, sir, with +that sort of man,” said the Chief Inspector, with returning +composure. The slight approving movement of the Assistant +Commissioner’s head went far to pacify the resentful +astonishment of the renowned officer. For Chief Inspector +Heat was a kind man, an excellent husband, a devoted father; and +the public and departmental confidence he enjoyed acting +favourably upon an amiable nature, disposed him to feel friendly +towards the successive Assistant Commissioners he had seen pass +through that very room. There had been three in his +time. The first one, a soldierly, abrupt, red-faced person, +with white eyebrows and an explosive temper, could be managed +with a silken thread. He left on reaching the age +limit. The second, a perfect gentleman, knowing his own and +everybody else’s place to a nicety, on resigning to take up +a higher appointment out of England got decorated for (really) +Inspector Heat’s services. To work with him had been +a pride and a pleasure. The third, a bit of a dark horse +from the first, was at the end of eighteen months something of a +dark horse still to the department. Upon the whole Chief +Inspector Heat believed him to be in the main +harmless—odd-looking, but harmless. He was speaking +now, and the Chief Inspector listened with outward deference +(which means nothing, being a matter of duty) and inwardly with +benevolent toleration.</p> + +<p>“Michaelis reported himself before leaving London for +the country?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, sir. He did.”</p> + +<p>“And what may he be doing there?” continued the +Assistant Commissioner, who was perfectly informed on that +point. Fitted with painful tightness into an old wooden +arm-chair, before a worm-eaten oak table in an upstairs room of a +four-roomed cottage with a roof of moss-grown tiles, Michaelis +was writing night and day in a shaky, slanting hand that +“Autobiography of a Prisoner” which was to be like a +book of Revelation in the history of mankind. The +conditions of confined space, seclusion, and solitude in a small +four-roomed cottage were favourable to his inspiration. It +was like being in prison, except that one was never disturbed for +the odious purpose of taking exercise according to the tyrannical +regulations of his old home in the penitentiary. He could +not tell whether the sun still shone on the earth or not. +The perspiration of the literary labour dropped from his +brow. A delightful enthusiasm urged him on. It was +the liberation of his inner life, the letting out of his soul +into the wide world. And the zeal of his guileless vanity +(first awakened by the offer of five hundred pounds from a +publisher) seemed something predestined and holy.</p> + +<p>“It would be, of course, most desirable to be informed +exactly,” insisted the Assistant Commissioner +uncandidly.</p> + +<p>Chief Inspector Heat, conscious of renewed irritation at this +display of scrupulousness, said that the county police had been +notified from the first of Michaelis’ arrival, and that a +full report could be obtained in a few hours. A wire to the +superintendent—</p> + +<p>Thus he spoke, rather slowly, while his mind seemed already to +be weighing the consequences. A slight knitting of the brow +was the outward sign of this. But he was interrupted by a +question.</p> + +<p>“You’ve sent that wire already?”</p> + +<p>“No, sir,” he answered, as if surprised.</p> + +<p>The Assistant Commissioner uncrossed his legs suddenly. +The briskness of that movement contrasted with the casual way in +which he threw out a suggestion.</p> + +<p>“Would you think that Michaelis had anything to do with +the preparation of that bomb, for instance?”</p> + +<p>The Chief Inspector assumed a reflective manner.</p> + +<p>“I wouldn’t say so. There’s no +necessity to say anything at present. He associates with +men who are classed as dangerous. He was made a delegate of +the Red Committee less than a year after his release on +licence. A sort of compliment, I suppose.”</p> + +<p>And the Chief Inspector laughed a little angrily, a little +scornfully. With a man of that sort scrupulousness was a +misplaced and even an illegal sentiment. The celebrity +bestowed upon Michaelis on his release two years ago by some +emotional journalists in want of special copy had rankled ever +since in his breast. It was perfectly legal to arrest that +man on the barest suspicion. It was legal and expedient on +the face of it. His two former chiefs would have seen the +point at once; whereas this one, without saying either yes or no, +sat there, as if lost in a dream. Moreover, besides being +legal and expedient, the arrest of Michaelis solved a little +personal difficulty which worried Chief Inspector Heat +somewhat. This difficulty had its bearing upon his +reputation, upon his comfort, and even upon the efficient +performance of his duties. For, if Michaelis no doubt knew +something about this outrage, the Chief Inspector was fairly +certain that he did not know too much. This was just as +well. He knew much less—the Chief Inspector was +positive—than certain other individuals he had in his mind, +but whose arrest seemed to him inexpedient, besides being a more +complicated matter, on account of the rules of the game. +The rules of the game did not protect so much Michaelis, who was +an ex-convict. It would be stupid not to take advantage of +legal facilities, and the journalists who had written him up with +emotional gush would be ready to write him down with emotional +indignation.</p> + +<p>This prospect, viewed with confidence, had the attraction of a +personal triumph for Chief Inspector Heat. And deep down in +his blameless bosom of an average married citizen, almost +unconscious but potent nevertheless, the dislike of being +compelled by events to meddle with the desperate ferocity of the +Professor had its say. This dislike had been strengthened +by the chance meeting in the lane. The encounter did not +leave behind with Chief Inspector Heat that satisfactory sense of +superiority the members of the police force get from the +unofficial but intimate side of their intercourse with the +criminal classes, by which the vanity of power is soothed, and +the vulgar love of domination over our fellow-creatures is +flattered as worthily as it deserves.</p> + +<p>The perfect anarchist was not recognised as a fellow-creature +by Chief Inspector Heat. He was impossible—a mad dog +to be left alone. Not that the Chief Inspector was afraid +of him; on the contrary, he meant to have him some day. But +not yet; he meant to get hold of him in his own time, properly +and effectively according to the rules of the game. The +present was not the right time for attempting that feat, not the +right time for many reasons, personal and of public +service. This being the strong feeling of Inspector Heat, +it appeared to him just and proper that this affair should be +shunted off its obscure and inconvenient track, leading goodness +knows where, into a quiet (and lawful) siding called +Michaelis. And he repeated, as if reconsidering the +suggestion conscientiously:</p> + +<p>“The bomb. No, I would not say that exactly. +We may never find that out. But it’s clear that he is +connected with this in some way, which we can find out without +much trouble.”</p> + +<p>His countenance had that look of grave, overbearing +indifference once well known and much dreaded by the better sort +of thieves. Chief Inspector Heat, though what is called a +man, was not a smiling animal. But his inward state was +that of satisfaction at the passively receptive attitude of the +Assistant Commissioner, who murmured gently:</p> + +<p>“And you really think that the investigation should be +made in that direction?”</p> + +<p>“I do, sir.”</p> + +<p>“Quite convinced?</p> + +<p>“I am, sir. That’s the true line for us to +take.”</p> + +<p>The Assistant Commissioner withdrew the support of his hand +from his reclining head with a suddenness that, considering his +languid attitude, seemed to menace his whole person with +collapse. But, on the contrary, he sat up, extremely alert, +behind the great writing-table on which his hand had fallen with +the sound of a sharp blow.</p> + +<p>“What I want to know is what put it out of your head +till now.”</p> + +<p>“Put it out of my head,” repeated the Chief +Inspector very slowly.</p> + +<p>“Yes. Till you were called into this +room—you know.”</p> + +<p>The Chief Inspector felt as if the air between his clothing +and his skin had become unpleasantly hot. It was the +sensation of an unprecedented and incredible experience.</p> + +<p>“Of course,” he said, exaggerating the +deliberation of his utterance to the utmost limits of +possibility, “if there is a reason, of which I know +nothing, for not interfering with the convict Michaelis, perhaps +it’s just as well I didn’t start the county police +after him.”</p> + +<p>This took such a long time to say that the unflagging +attention of the Assistant Commissioner seemed a wonderful feat +of endurance. His retort came without delay.</p> + +<p>“No reason whatever that I know of. Come, Chief +Inspector, this finessing with me is highly improper on your +part—highly improper. And it’s also unfair, you +know. You shouldn’t leave me to puzzle things out for +myself like this. Really, I am surprised.”</p> + +<p>He paused, then added smoothly: “I need scarcely tell +you that this conversation is altogether unofficial.”</p> + +<p>These words were far from pacifying the Chief Inspector. +The indignation of a betrayed tight-rope performer was strong +within him. In his pride of a trusted servant he was +affected by the assurance that the rope was not shaken for the +purpose of breaking his neck, as by an exhibition of +impudence. As if anybody were afraid! Assistant +Commissioners come and go, but a valuable Chief Inspector is not +an ephemeral office phenomenon. He was not afraid of +getting a broken neck. To have his performance spoiled was +more than enough to account for the glow of honest +indignation. And as thought is no respecter of persons, the +thought of Chief Inspector Heat took a threatening and prophetic +shape. “You, my boy,” he said to himself, +keeping his round and habitually roving eyes fastened upon the +Assistant Commissioner’s face—“you, my boy, you +don’t know your place, and your place won’t know you +very long either, I bet.”</p> + +<p>As if in provoking answer to that thought, something like the +ghost of an amiable smile passed on the lips of the Assistant +Commissioner. His manner was easy and business-like while +he persisted in administering another shake to the tight +rope.</p> + +<p>“Let us come now to what you have discovered on the +spot, Chief Inspector,” he said.</p> + +<p>“A fool and his job are soon parted,” went on the +train of prophetic thought in Chief Inspector Heat’s +head. But it was immediately followed by the reflection +that a higher official, even when “fired out” (this +was the precise image), has still the time as he flies through +the door to launch a nasty kick at the shin-bones of a +subordinate. Without softening very much the basilisk +nature of his stare, he said impassively:</p> + +<p>“We are coming to that part of my investigation, +sir.”</p> + +<p>“That’s right. Well, what have you brought +away from it?”</p> + +<p>The Chief Inspector, who had made up his mind to jump off the +rope, came to the ground with gloomy frankness.</p> + +<p>“I’ve brought away an address,” he said, +pulling out of his pocket without haste a singed rag of dark blue +cloth. “This belongs to the overcoat the fellow who +got himself blown to pieces was wearing. Of course, the +overcoat may not have been his, and may even have been +stolen. But that’s not at all probable if you look at +this.”</p> + +<p>The Chief Inspector, stepping up to the table, smoothed out +carefully the rag of blue cloth. He had picked it up from +the repulsive heap in the mortuary, because a tailor’s name +is found sometimes under the collar. It is not often of +much use, but still—He only half expected to find anything +useful, but certainly he did not expect to find—not under +the collar at all, but stitched carefully on the under side of +the lapel—a square piece of calico with an address written +on it in marking ink.</p> + +<p>The Chief Inspector removed his smoothing hand.</p> + +<p>“I carried it off with me without anybody taking +notice,” he said. “I thought it best. It +can always be produced if required.”</p> + +<p>The Assistant Commissioner, rising a little in his chair, +pulled the cloth over to his side of the table. He sat +looking at it in silence. Only the number 32 and the name +of Brett Street were written in marking ink on a piece of calico +slightly larger than an ordinary cigarette paper. He was +genuinely surprised.</p> + +<p>“Can’t understand why he should have gone about +labelled like this,” he said, looking up at Chief Inspector +Heat. “It’s a most extraordinary +thing.”</p> + +<p>“I met once in the smoking-room of a hotel an old +gentleman who went about with his name and address sewn on in all +his coats in case of an accident or sudden illness,” said +the Chief Inspector. “He professed to be eighty-four +years old, but he didn’t look his age. He told me he +was also afraid of losing his memory suddenly, like those people +he has been reading of in the papers.”</p> + +<p>A question from the Assistant Commissioner, who wanted to know +what was No. 32 Brett Street, interrupted that reminiscence +abruptly. The Chief Inspector, driven down to the ground by +unfair artifices, had elected to walk the path of unreserved +openness. If he believed firmly that to know too much was +not good for the department, the judicious holding back of +knowledge was as far as his loyalty dared to go for the good of +the service. If the Assistant Commissioner wanted to +mismanage this affair nothing, of course, could prevent +him. But, on his own part, he now saw no reason for a +display of alacrity. So he answered concisely:</p> + +<p>“It’s a shop, sir.”</p> + +<p>The Assistant Commissioner, with his eyes lowered on the rag +of blue cloth, waited for more information. As that did not +come he proceeded to obtain it by a series of questions +propounded with gentle patience. Thus he acquired an idea +of the nature of Mr Verloc’s commerce, of his personal +appearance, and heard at last his name. In a pause the +Assistant Commissioner raised his eyes, and discovered some +animation on the Chief Inspector’s face. They looked +at each other in silence.</p> + +<p>“Of course,” said the latter, “the +department has no record of that man.”</p> + +<p>“Did any of my predecessors have any knowledge of what +you have told me now?” asked the Assistant Commissioner, +putting his elbows on the table and raising his joined hands +before his face, as if about to offer prayer, only that his eyes +had not a pious expression.</p> + +<p>“No, sir; certainly not. What would have been the +object? That sort of man could never be produced publicly +to any good purpose. It was sufficient for me to know who +he was, and to make use of him in a way that could be used +publicly.”</p> + +<p>“And do you think that sort of private knowledge +consistent with the official position you occupy?”</p> + +<p>“Perfectly, sir. I think it’s quite +proper. I will take the liberty to tell you, sir, that it +makes me what I am—and I am looked upon as a man who knows +his work. It’s a private affair of my own. A +personal friend of mine in the French police gave me the hint +that the fellow was an Embassy spy. Private friendship, +private information, private use of it—that’s how I +look upon it.”</p> + +<p>The Assistant Commissioner after remarking to himself that the +mental state of the renowned Chief Inspector seemed to affect the +outline of his lower jaw, as if the lively sense of his high +professional distinction had been located in that part of his +anatomy, dismissed the point for the moment with a calm “I +see.” Then leaning his cheek on his joined hands:</p> + +<p>“Well then—speaking privately if you +like—how long have you been in private touch with this +Embassy spy?”</p> + +<p>To this inquiry the private answer of the Chief Inspector, so +private that it was never shaped into audible words, was:</p> + +<p>“Long before you were even thought of for your place +here.”</p> + +<p>The so-to-speak public utterance was much more precise.</p> + +<p>“I saw him for the first time in my life a little more +than seven years ago, when two Imperial Highnesses and the +Imperial Chancellor were on a visit here. I was put in +charge of all the arrangements for looking after them. +Baron Stott-Wartenheim was Ambassador then. He was a very +nervous old gentleman. One evening, three days before the +Guildhall Banquet, he sent word that he wanted to see me for a +moment. I was downstairs, and the carriages were at the +door to take the Imperial Highnesses and the Chancellor to the +opera. I went up at once. I found the Baron walking +up and down his bedroom in a pitiable state of distress, +squeezing his hands together. He assured me he had the +fullest confidence in our police and in my abilities, but he had +there a man just come over from Paris whose information could be +trusted implicity. He wanted me to hear what that man had +to say. He took me at once into a dressing-room next door, +where I saw a big fellow in a heavy overcoat sitting all alone on +a chair, and holding his hat and stick in one hand. The +Baron said to him in French ‘Speak, my friend.’ +The light in that room was not very good. I talked with him +for some five minutes perhaps. He certainly gave me a piece +of very startling news. Then the Baron took me aside +nervously to praise him up to me, and when I turned round again I +discovered that the fellow had vanished like a ghost. Got +up and sneaked out down some back stairs, I suppose. There +was no time to run after him, as I had to hurry off after the +Ambassador down the great staircase, and see the party started +safe for the opera. However, I acted upon the information +that very night. Whether it was perfectly correct or not, +it did look serious enough. Very likely it saved us from an +ugly trouble on the day of the Imperial visit to the City.</p> + +<p>“Some time later, a month or so after my promotion to +Chief Inspector, my attention was attracted to a big burly man, I +thought I had seen somewhere before, coming out in a hurry from a +jeweller’s shop in the Strand. I went after him, as +it was on my way towards Charing Cross, and there seeing one of +our detectives across the road, I beckoned him over, and pointed +out the fellow to him, with instructions to watch his movements +for a couple of days, and then report to me. No later than +next afternoon my man turned up to tell me that the fellow had +married his landlady’s daughter at a registrar’s +office that very day at 11.30 a.m., and had gone off with her to +Margate for a week. Our man had seen the luggage being put +on the cab. There were some old Paris labels on one of the +bags. Somehow I couldn’t get the fellow out of my +head, and the very next time I had to go to Paris on service I +spoke about him to that friend of mine in the Paris police. +My friend said: ‘From what you tell me I think you must +mean a rather well-known hanger-on and emissary of the +Revolutionary Red Committee. He says he is an Englishman by +birth. We have an idea that he has been for a good few +years now a secret agent of one of the foreign Embassies in +London.’ This woke up my memory completely. He +was the vanishing fellow I saw sitting on a chair in Baron +Stott-Wartenheim’s bathroom. I told my friend that he +was quite right. The fellow was a secret agent to my +certain knowledge. Afterwards my friend took the trouble to +ferret out the complete record of that man for me. I +thought I had better know all there was to know; but I +don’t suppose you want to hear his history now, +sir?”</p> + +<p>The Assistant Commissioner shook his supported head. +“The history of your relations with that useful personage +is the only thing that matters just now,” he said, closing +slowly his weary, deep-set eyes, and then opening them swiftly +with a greatly refreshed glance.</p> + +<p>“There’s nothing official about them,” said +the Chief Inspector bitterly. “I went into his shop +one evening, told him who I was, and reminded him of our first +meeting. He didn’t as much as twitch an +eyebrow. He said that he was married and settled now, and +that all he wanted was not to be interfered in his little +business. I took it upon myself to promise him that, as +long as he didn’t go in for anything obviously outrageous, +he would be left alone by the police. That was worth +something to him, because a word from us to the Custom-House +people would have been enough to get some of these packages he +gets from Paris and Brussels opened in Dover, with confiscation +to follow for certain, and perhaps a prosecution as well at the +end of it.”</p> + +<p>“That’s a very precarious trade,” murmured +the Assistant Commissioner. “Why did he go in for +that?”</p> + +<p>The Chief Inspector raised scornful eyebrows +dispassionately.</p> + +<p>“Most likely got a connection—friends on the +Continent—amongst people who deal in such wares. They +would be just the sort he would consort with. He’s a +lazy dog, too—like the rest of them.”</p> + +<p>“What do you get from him in exchange for your +protection?”</p> + +<p>The Chief Inspector was not inclined to enlarge on the value +of Mr Verloc’s services.</p> + +<p>“He would not be much good to anybody but myself. +One has got to know a good deal beforehand to make use of a man +like that. I can understand the sort of hint he can +give. And when I want a hint he can generally furnish it to +me.”</p> + +<p>The Chief Inspector lost himself suddenly in a discreet +reflective mood; and the Assistant Commissioner repressed a smile +at the fleeting thought that the reputation of Chief Inspector +Heat might possibly have been made in a great part by the Secret +Agent Verloc.</p> + +<p>“In a more general way of being of use, all our men of +the Special Crimes section on duty at Charing Cross and Victoria +have orders to take careful notice of anybody they may see with +him. He meets the new arrivals frequently, and afterwards +keeps track of them. He seems to have been told off for +that sort of duty. When I want an address in a hurry, I can +always get it from him. Of course, I know how to manage our +relations. I haven’t seen him to speak to three times +in the last two years. I drop him a line, unsigned, and he +answers me in the same way at my private address.”</p> + +<p>From time to time the Assistant Commissioner gave an almost +imperceptible nod. The Chief Inspector added that he did +not suppose Mr Verloc to be deep in the confidence of the +prominent members of the Revolutionary International Council, but +that he was generally trusted of that there could be no +doubt. “Whenever I’ve had reason to think there +was something in the wind,” he concluded, “I’ve +always found he could tell me something worth knowing.”</p> + +<p>The Assistant Commissioner made a significant remark.</p> + +<p>“He failed you this time.”</p> + +<p>“Neither had I wind of anything in any other way,” +retorted Chief Inspector Heat. “I asked him nothing, +so he could tell me nothing. He isn’t one of our +men. It isn’t as if he were in our pay.”</p> + +<p>“No,” muttered the Assistant Commissioner. +“He’s a spy in the pay of a foreign government. +We could never confess to him.”</p> + +<p>“I must do my work in my own way,” declared the +Chief Inspector. “When it comes to that I would deal +with the devil himself, and take the consequences. There +are things not fit for everybody to know.”</p> + +<p>“Your idea of secrecy seems to consist in keeping the +chief of your department in the dark. That’s +stretching it perhaps a little too far, isn’t it? He +lives over his shop?”</p> + +<p>“Who—Verloc? Oh yes. He lives over his +shop. The wife’s mother, I fancy, lives with +them.”</p> + +<p>“Is the house watched?”</p> + +<p>“Oh dear, no. It wouldn’t do. Certain +people who come there are watched. My opinion is that he +knows nothing of this affair.”</p> + +<p>“How do you account for this?” The Assistant +Commissioner nodded at the cloth rag lying before him on the +table.</p> + +<p>“I don’t account for it at all, sir. +It’s simply unaccountable. It can’t be +explained by what I know.” The Chief Inspector made +those admissions with the frankness of a man whose reputation is +established as if on a rock. “At any rate not at this +present moment. I think that the man who had most to do +with it will turn out to be Michaelis.”</p> + +<p>“You do?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, sir; because I can answer for all the +others.”</p> + +<p>“What about that other man supposed to have escaped from +the park?”</p> + +<p>“I should think he’s far away by this time,” +opined the Chief Inspector.</p> + +<p>The Assistant Commissioner looked hard at him, and rose +suddenly, as though having made up his mind to some course of +action. As a matter of fact, he had that very moment +succumbed to a fascinating temptation. The Chief Inspector +heard himself dismissed with instructions to meet his superior +early next morning for further consultation upon the case. +He listened with an impenetrable face, and walked out of the room +with measured steps.</p> + +<p>Whatever might have been the plans of the Assistant +Commissioner they had nothing to do with that desk work, which +was the bane of his existence because of its confined nature and +apparent lack of reality. It could not have had, or else +the general air of alacrity that came upon the Assistant +Commissioner would have been inexplicable. As soon as he +was left alone he looked for his hat impulsively, and put it on +his head. Having done that, he sat down again to reconsider +the whole matter. But as his mind was already made up, this +did not take long. And before Chief Inspector Heat had gone +very far on the way home, he also left the building.</p> + +<h2>CHAPTER VII</h2> + +<p>The Assistant Commissioner walked along a short and narrow +street like a wet, muddy trench, then crossing a very broad +thoroughfare entered a public edifice, and sought speech with a +young private secretary (unpaid) of a great personage.</p> + +<p>This fair, smooth-faced young man, whose symmetrically +arranged hair gave him the air of a large and neat schoolboy, met +the Assistant Commissioner’s request with a doubtful look, +and spoke with bated breath.</p> + +<p>“Would he see you? I don’t know about +that. He has walked over from the House an hour ago to talk +with the permanent Under-Secretary, and now he’s ready to +walk back again. He might have sent for him; but he does it +for the sake of a little exercise, I suppose. It’s +all the exercise he can find time for while this session +lasts. I don’t complain; I rather enjoy these little +strolls. He leans on my arm, and doesn’t open his +lips. But, I say, he’s very tired, +and—well—not in the sweetest of tempers just +now.”</p> + +<p>“It’s in connection with that Greenwich +affair.”</p> + +<p>“Oh! I say! He’s very bitter against +you people. But I will go and see, if you +insist.”</p> + +<p>“Do. That’s a good fellow,” said the +Assistant Commissioner.</p> + +<p>The unpaid secretary admired this pluck. Composing for +himself an innocent face, he opened a door, and went in with the +assurance of a nice and privileged child. And presently he +reappeared, with a nod to the Assistant Commissioner, who passing +through the same door left open for him, found himself with the +great personage in a large room.</p> + +<p>Vast in bulk and stature, with a long white face, which, +broadened at the base by a big double chin, appeared egg-shaped +in the fringe of thin greyish whisker, the great personage seemed +an expanding man. Unfortunate from a tailoring point of +view, the cross-folds in the middle of a buttoned black coat +added to the impression, as if the fastenings of the garment were +tried to the utmost. From the head, set upward on a thick +neck, the eyes, with puffy lower lids, stared with a haughty +droop on each side of a hooked aggressive nose, nobly salient in +the vast pale circumference of the face. A shiny silk hat +and a pair of worn gloves lying ready on the end of a long table +looked expanded too, enormous.</p> + +<p>He stood on the hearthrug in big, roomy boots, and uttered no +word of greeting.</p> + +<p>“I would like to know if this is the beginning of +another dynamite campaign,” he asked at once in a deep, +very smooth voice. “Don’t go into +details. I have no time for that.”</p> + +<p>The Assistant Commissioner’s figure before this big and +rustic Presence had the frail slenderness of a reed addressing +an oak. And indeed the unbroken record of that man’s +descent surpassed in the number of centuries the age of the +oldest oak in the country.</p> + +<p>“No. As far as one can be positive about anything +I can assure you that it is not.”</p> + +<p>“Yes. But your idea of assurances over +there,” said the great man, with a contemptuous wave of his +hand towards a window giving on the broad thoroughfare, +“seems to consist mainly in making the Secretary of State +look a fool. I have been told positively in this very room +less than a month ago that nothing of the sort was even +possible.”</p> + +<p>The Assistant Commissioner glanced in the direction of the +window calmly.</p> + +<p>“You will allow me to remark, Sir Ethelred, that so far +I have had no opportunity to give you assurances of any +kind.”</p> + +<p>The haughty droop of the eyes was focussed now upon the +Assistant Commissioner.</p> + +<p>“True,” confessed the deep, smooth voice. +“I sent for Heat. You are still rather a novice in +your new berth. And how are you getting on over +there?”</p> + +<p>“I believe I am learning something every day.”</p> + +<p>“Of course, of course. I hope you will get +on.”</p> + +<p>“Thank you, Sir Ethelred. I’ve learned +something to-day, and even within the last hour or so. +There is much in this affair of a kind that does not meet the eye +in a usual anarchist outrage, even if one looked into it as deep +as can be. That’s why I am here.”</p> + +<p>The great man put his arms akimbo, the backs of his big hands +resting on his hips.</p> + +<p>“Very well. Go on. Only no details, +pray. Spare me the details.”</p> + +<p>“You shall not be troubled with them, Sir +Ethelred,” the Assistant Commissioner began, with a calm +and untroubled assurance. While he was speaking the hands +on the face of the clock behind the great man’s +back—a heavy, glistening affair of massive scrolls in the +same dark marble as the mantelpiece, and with a ghostly, +evanescent tick—had moved through the space of seven +minutes. He spoke with a studious fidelity to a +parenthetical manner, into which every little fact—that is, +every detail—fitted with delightful ease. Not a +murmur nor even a movement hinted at interruption. The +great Personage might have been the statue of one of his own +princely ancestors stripped of a crusader’s war harness, +and put into an ill-fitting frock coat. The Assistant +Commissioner felt as though he were at liberty to talk for an +hour. But he kept his head, and at the end of the time +mentioned above he broke off with a sudden conclusion, which, +reproducing the opening statement, pleasantly surprised Sir +Ethelred by its apparent swiftness and force.</p> + +<p>“The kind of thing which meets us under the surface of +this affair, otherwise without gravity, is unusual—in this +precise form at least—and requires special +treatment.”</p> + +<p>The tone of Sir Ethelred was deepened, full of conviction.</p> + +<p>“I should think so—involving the Ambassador of a +foreign power!”</p> + +<p>“Oh! The Ambassador!” protested the other, +erect and slender, allowing himself a mere half smile. +“It would be stupid of me to advance anything of the +kind. And it is absolutely unnecessary, because if I am +right in my surmises, whether ambassador or hall porter +it’s a mere detail.”</p> + +<p>Sir Ethelred opened a wide mouth, like a cavern, into which +the hooked nose seemed anxious to peer; there came from it a +subdued rolling sound, as from a distant organ with the scornful +indignation stop.</p> + +<p>“No! These people are too impossible. What +do they mean by importing their methods of Crim-Tartary +here? A Turk would have more decency.”</p> + +<p>“You forget, Sir Ethelred, that strictly speaking we +know nothing positively—as yet.”</p> + +<p>“No! But how would you define it? +Shortly?”</p> + +<p>“Barefaced audacity amounting to childishness of a +peculiar sort.”</p> + +<p>“We can’t put up with the innocence of nasty +little children,” said the great and expanded personage, +expanding a little more, as it were. The haughty drooping +glance struck crushingly the carpet at the Assistant +Commissioner’s feet. “They’ll have to get +a hard rap on the knuckles over this affair. We must be in +a position to—What is your general idea, stated +shortly? No need to go into details.”</p> + +<p>“No, Sir Ethelred. In principle, I should lay it +down that the existence of secret agents should not be tolerated, +as tending to augment the positive dangers of the evil against +which they are used. That the spy will fabricate his +information is a mere commonplace. But in the sphere of +political and revolutionary action, relying partly on violence, +the professional spy has every facility to fabricate the very +facts themselves, and will spread the double evil of emulation in +one direction, and of panic, hasty legislation, unreflecting +hate, on the other. However, this is an imperfect +world—”</p> + +<p>The deep-voiced Presence on the hearthrug, motionless, with +big elbows stuck out, said hastily:</p> + +<p>“Be lucid, please.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, Sir Ethelred—An imperfect world. +Therefore directly the character of this affair suggested itself +to me, I thought it should be dealt with with special secrecy, +and ventured to come over here.”</p> + +<p>“That’s right,” approved the great +Personage, glancing down complacently over his double chin. +“I am glad there’s somebody over at your shop who +thinks that the Secretary of State may be trusted now and +then.”</p> + +<p>The Assistant Commissioner had an amused smile.</p> + +<p>“I was really thinking that it might be better at this +stage for Heat to be replaced by—”</p> + +<p>“What! Heat? An ass—eh?” +exclaimed the great man, with distinct animosity.</p> + +<p>“Not at all. Pray, Sir Ethelred, don’t put +that unjust interpretation on my remarks.”</p> + +<p>“Then what? Too clever by half?”</p> + +<p>“Neither—at least not as a rule. All the +grounds of my surmises I have from him. The only thing +I’ve discovered by myself is that he has been making use of +that man privately. Who could blame him? He’s +an old police hand. He told me virtually that he must have +tools to work with. It occurred to me that this tool should +be surrendered to the Special Crimes division as a whole, instead +of remaining the private property of Chief Inspector Heat. +I extend my conception of our departmental duties to the +suppression of the secret agent. But Chief Inspector Heat +is an old departmental hand. He would accuse me of +perverting its morality and attacking its efficiency. He +would define it bitterly as protection extended to the criminal +class of revolutionists. It would mean just that to +him.”</p> + +<p>“Yes. But what do you mean?”</p> + +<p>“I mean to say, first, that there’s but poor +comfort in being able to declare that any given act of +violence—damaging property or destroying life—is not +the work of anarchism at all, but of something else +altogether—some species of authorised scoundrelism. +This, I fancy, is much more frequent than we suppose. Next, +it’s obvious that the existence of these people in the pay +of foreign governments destroys in a measure the efficiency of +our supervision. A spy of that sort can afford to be more +reckless than the most reckless of conspirators. His +occupation is free from all restraint. He’s without +as much faith as is necessary for complete negation, and without +that much law as is implied in lawlessness. Thirdly, the +existence of these spies amongst the revolutionary groups, which +we are reproached for harbouring here, does away with all +certitude. You have received a reassuring statement from +Chief Inspector Heat some time ago. It was by no means +groundless—and yet this episode happens. I call it an +episode, because this affair, I make bold to say, is episodic; it +is no part of any general scheme, however wild. The very +peculiarities which surprise and perplex Chief Inspector Heat +establish its character in my eyes. I am keeping clear of +details, Sir Ethelred.”</p> + +<p>The Personage on the hearthrug had been listening with +profound attention.</p> + +<p>“Just so. Be as concise as you can.”</p> + +<p>The Assistant Commissioner intimated by an earnest deferential +gesture that he was anxious to be concise.</p> + +<p>“There is a peculiar stupidity and feebleness in the +conduct of this affair which gives me excellent hopes of getting +behind it and finding there something else than an individual +freak of fanaticism. For it is a planned thing, +undoubtedly. The actual perpetrator seems to have been led +by the hand to the spot, and then abandoned hurriedly to his own +devices. The inference is that he was imported from abroad +for the purpose of committing this outrage. At the same +time one is forced to the conclusion that he did not know enough +English to ask his way, unless one were to accept the fantastic +theory that he was a deaf mute. I wonder now—But this +is idle. He has destroyed himself by an accident, +obviously. Not an extraordinary accident. But an +extraordinary little fact remains: the address on his clothing +discovered by the merest accident, too. It is an incredible +little fact, so incredible that the explanation which will +account for it is bound to touch the bottom of this affair. +Instead of instructing Heat to go on with this case, my intention +is to seek this explanation personally—by myself, I +mean—where it may be picked up. That is in a certain +shop in Brett Street, and on the lips of a certain secret agent +once upon a time the confidential and trusted spy of the late +Baron Stott-Wartenheim, Ambassador of a Great Power to the Court +of St James.”</p> + +<p>The Assistant Commissioner paused, then added: “Those +fellows are a perfect pest.” In order to raise his +drooping glance to the speaker’s face, the Personage on the +hearthrug had gradually tilted his head farther back, which gave +him an aspect of extraordinary haughtiness.</p> + +<p>“Why not leave it to Heat?”</p> + +<p>“Because he is an old departmental hand. They have +their own morality. My line of inquiry would appear to him +an awful perversion of duty. For him the plain duty is to +fasten the guilt upon as many prominent anarchists as he can on +some slight indications he had picked up in the course of his +investigation on the spot; whereas I, he would say, am bent upon +vindicating their innocence. I am trying to be as lucid as +I can in presenting this obscure matter to you without +details.”</p> + +<p>“He would, would he?” muttered the proud head of +Sir Ethelred from its lofty elevation.</p> + +<p>“I am afraid so—with an indignation and disgust of +which you or I can have no idea. He’s an excellent +servant. We must not put an undue strain on his +loyalty. That’s always a mistake. Besides, I +want a free hand—a freer hand than it would be perhaps +advisable to give Chief Inspector Heat. I haven’t the +slightest wish to spare this man Verloc. He will, I +imagine, be extremely startled to find his connection with this +affair, whatever it may be, brought home to him so quickly. +Frightening him will not be very difficult. But our true +objective lies behind him somewhere. I want your authority +to give him such assurances of personal safety as I may think +proper.”</p> + +<p>“Certainly,” said the Personage on the +hearthrug. “Find out as much as you can; find it out +in your own way.”</p> + +<p>“I must set about it without loss of time, this very +evening,” said the Assistant Commissioner.</p> + +<p>Sir Ethelred shifted one hand under his coat tails, and +tilting back his head, looked at him steadily.</p> + +<p>“We’ll have a late sitting to-night,” he +said. “Come to the House with your discoveries if we +are not gone home. I’ll warn Toodles to look out for +you. He’ll take you into my room.”</p> + +<p>The numerous family and the wide connections of the +youthful-looking Private Secretary cherished for him the hope of +an austere and exalted destiny. Meantime the social sphere +he adorned in his hours of idleness chose to pet him under the +above nickname. And Sir Ethelred, hearing it on the lips of +his wife and girls every day (mostly at breakfast-time), had +conferred upon it the dignity of unsmiling adoption.</p> + +<p>The Assistant Commissioner was surprised and gratified +extremely.</p> + +<p>“I shall certainly bring my discoveries to the House on +the chance of you having the time to—”</p> + +<p>“I won’t have the time,” interrupted the +great Personage. “But I will see you. I +haven’t the time now—And you are going +yourself?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, Sir Ethelred. I think it the best +way.”</p> + +<p>The Personage had tilted his head so far back that, in order +to keep the Assistant Commissioner under his observation, he had +to nearly close his eyes.</p> + +<p>“H’m. Ha! And how do you +propose—Will you assume a disguise?”</p> + +<p>“Hardly a disguise! I’ll change my clothes, +of course.”</p> + +<p>“Of course,” repeated the great man, with a sort +of absent-minded loftiness. He turned his big head slowly, +and over his shoulder gave a haughty oblique stare to the +ponderous marble timepiece with the sly, feeble tick. The +gilt hands had taken the opportunity to steal through no less +than five and twenty minutes behind his back.</p> + +<p>The Assistant Commissioner, who could not see them, grew a +little nervous in the interval. But the great man presented +to him a calm and undismayed face.</p> + +<p>“Very well,” he said, and paused, as if in +deliberate contempt of the official clock. “But what +first put you in motion in this direction?”</p> + +<p>“I have been always of opinion,” began the +Assistant Commissioner.</p> + +<p>“Ah. Yes! Opinion. That’s of +course. But the immediate motive?”</p> + +<p>“What shall I say, Sir Ethelred? A new man’s +antagonism to old methods. A desire to know something at +first hand. Some impatience. It’s my old work, +but the harness is different. It has been chafing me a +little in one or two tender places.”</p> + +<p>“I hope you’ll get on over there,” said the +great man kindly, extending his hand, soft to the touch, but +broad and powerful like the hand of a glorified farmer. The +Assistant Commissioner shook it, and withdrew.</p> + +<p>In the outer room Toodles, who had been waiting perched on the +edge of a table, advanced to meet him, subduing his natural +buoyancy.</p> + +<p>“Well? Satisfactory?” he asked, with airy +importance.</p> + +<p>“Perfectly. You’ve earned my undying +gratitude,” answered the Assistant Commissioner, whose long +face looked wooden in contrast with the peculiar character of the +other’s gravity, which seemed perpetually ready to break +into ripples and chuckles.</p> + +<p>“That’s all right. But seriously, you +can’t imagine how irritated he is by the attacks on his +Bill for the Nationalisation of Fisheries. They call it the +beginning of social revolution. Of course, it is a +revolutionary measure. But these fellows have no +decency. The personal attacks—”</p> + +<p>“I read the papers,” remarked the Assistant +Commissioner.</p> + +<p>“Odious? Eh? And you have no notion what a +mass of work he has got to get through every day. He does +it all himself. Seems unable to trust anyone with these +Fisheries.”</p> + +<p>“And yet he’s given a whole half hour to the +consideration of my very small sprat,” interjected the +Assistant Commissioner.</p> + +<p>“Small! Is it? I’m glad to hear +that. But it’s a pity you didn’t keep away, +then. This fight takes it out of him frightfully. The +man’s getting exhausted. I feel it by the way he +leans on my arm as we walk over. And, I say, is he safe in +the streets? Mullins has been marching his men up here this +afternoon. There’s a constable stuck by every +lamp-post, and every second person we meet between this and +Palace Yard is an obvious ‘tec.’ It will get on +his nerves presently. I say, these foreign scoundrels +aren’t likely to throw something at him—are +they? It would be a national calamity. The country +can’t spare him.”</p> + +<p>“Not to mention yourself. He leans on your +arm,” suggested the Assistant Commissioner soberly. +“You would both go.”</p> + +<p>“It would be an easy way for a young man to go down into +history? Not so many British Ministers have been +assassinated as to make it a minor incident. But seriously +now—”</p> + +<p>“I am afraid that if you want to go down into history +you’ll have to do something for it. Seriously, +there’s no danger whatever for both of you but from +overwork.”</p> + +<p>The sympathetic Toodles welcomed this opening for a +chuckle.</p> + +<p>“The Fisheries won’t kill me. I am used to +late hours,” he declared, with ingenuous levity. But, +feeling an instant compunction, he began to assume an air of +statesman-like moodiness, as one draws on a glove. +“His massive intellect will stand any amount of work. +It’s his nerves that I am afraid of. The reactionary +gang, with that abusive brute Cheeseman at their head, insult him +every night.”</p> + +<p>“If he will insist on beginning a revolution!” +murmured the Assistant Commissioner.</p> + +<p>“The time has come, and he is the only man great enough +for the work,” protested the revolutionary Toodles, flaring +up under the calm, speculative gaze of the Assistant +Commissioner. Somewhere in a corridor a distant bell +tinkled urgently, and with devoted vigilance the young man +pricked up his ears at the sound. “He’s ready +to go now,” he exclaimed in a whisper, snatched up his hat, +and vanished from the room.</p> + +<p>The Assistant Commissioner went out by another door in a less +elastic manner. Again he crossed the wide thoroughfare, +walked along a narrow street, and re-entered hastily his own +departmental buildings. He kept up this accelerated pace to +the door of his private room. Before he had closed it +fairly his eyes sought his desk. He stood still for a +moment, then walked up, looked all round on the floor, sat down +in his chair, rang a bell, and waited.</p> + +<p>“Chief Inspector Heat gone yet?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, sir. Went away half-an-hour ago.”</p> + +<p>He nodded. “That will do.” And sitting +still, with his hat pushed off his forehead, he thought that it +was just like Heat’s confounded cheek to carry off quietly +the only piece of material evidence. But he thought this +without animosity. Old and valued servants will take +liberties. The piece of overcoat with the address sewn on +was certainly not a thing to leave about. Dismissing from +his mind this manifestation of Chief Inspector Heat’s +mistrust, he wrote and despatched a note to his wife, charging +her to make his apologies to Michaelis’ great lady, with +whom they were engaged to dine that evening.</p> + +<p>The short jacket and the low, round hat he assumed in a sort +of curtained alcove containing a washstand, a row of wooden pegs +and a shelf, brought out wonderfully the length of his grave, +brown face. He stepped back into the full light of the +room, looking like the vision of a cool, reflective Don Quixote, +with the sunken eyes of a dark enthusiast and a very deliberate +manner. He left the scene of his daily labours quickly like +an unobtrusive shadow. His descent into the street was like +the descent into a slimy aquarium from which the water had been +run off. A murky, gloomy dampness enveloped him. The +walls of the houses were wet, the mud of the roadway glistened +with an effect of phosphorescence, and when he emerged into the +Strand out of a narrow street by the side of Charing Cross +Station the genius of the locality assimilated him. He +might have been but one more of the queer foreign fish that can +be seen of an evening about there flitting round the dark +corners.</p> + +<p>He came to a stand on the very edge of the pavement, and +waited. His exercised eyes had made out in the confused +movements of lights and shadows thronging the roadway the +crawling approach of a hansom. He gave no sign; but when +the low step gliding along the curbstone came to his feet he +dodged in skilfully in front of the big turning wheel, and spoke +up through the little trap door almost before the man gazing +supinely ahead from his perch was aware of having been boarded by +a fare.</p> + +<p>It was not a long drive. It ended by signal abruptly, +nowhere in particular, between two lamp-posts before a large +drapery establishment—a long range of shops already lapped +up in sheets of corrugated iron for the night. Tendering a +coin through the trap door the fare slipped out and away, leaving +an effect of uncanny, eccentric ghastliness upon the +driver’s mind. But the size of the coin was +satisfactory to his touch, and his education not being literary, +he remained untroubled by the fear of finding it presently turned +to a dead leaf in his pocket. Raised above the world of +fares by the nature of his calling, he contemplated their actions +with a limited interest. The sharp pulling of his horse +right round expressed his philosophy.</p> + +<p>Meantime the Assistant Commissioner was already giving his +order to a waiter in a little Italian restaurant round the +corner—one of those traps for the hungry, long and narrow, +baited with a perspective of mirrors and white napery; without +air, but with an atmosphere of their own—an atmosphere of +fraudulent cookery mocking an abject mankind in the most pressing +of its miserable necessities. In this immoral atmosphere +the Assistant Commissioner, reflecting upon his enterprise, +seemed to lose some more of his identity. He had a sense of +loneliness, of evil freedom. It was rather pleasant. +When, after paying for his short meal, he stood up and waited for +his change, he saw himself in the sheet of glass, and was struck +by his foreign appearance. He contemplated his own image +with a melancholy and inquisitive gaze, then by sudden +inspiration raised the collar of his jacket. This +arrangement appeared to him commendable, and he completed it by +giving an upward twist to the ends of his black moustache. +He was satisfied by the subtle modification of his personal +aspect caused by these small changes. “That’ll +do very well,” he thought. “I’ll get a +little wet, a little splashed—”</p> + +<p>He became aware of the waiter at his elbow and of a small pile +of silver coins on the edge of the table before him. The +waiter kept one eye on it, while his other eye followed the long +back of a tall, not very young girl, who passed up to a distant +table looking perfectly sightless and altogether +unapproachable. She seemed to be a habitual customer.</p> + +<p>On going out the Assistant Commissioner made to himself the +observation that the patrons of the place had lost in the +frequentation of fraudulent cookery all their national and +private characteristics. And this was strange, since the +Italian restaurant is such a peculiarly British +institution. But these people were as denationalised as the +dishes set before them with every circumstance of unstamped +respectability. Neither was their personality stamped in +any way, professionally, socially or racially. They seemed +created for the Italian restaurant, unless the Italian restaurant +had been perchance created for them. But that last +hypothesis was unthinkable, since one could not place them +anywhere outside those special establishments. One never +met these enigmatical persons elsewhere. It was impossible +to form a precise idea what occupations they followed by day and +where they went to bed at night. And he himself had become +unplaced. It would have been impossible for anybody to +guess his occupation. As to going to bed, there was a doubt +even in his own mind. Not indeed in regard to his domicile +itself, but very much so in respect of the time when he would be +able to return there. A pleasurable feeling of independence +possessed him when he heard the glass doors swing to behind his +back with a sort of imperfect baffled thud. He advanced at +once into an immensity of greasy slime and damp plaster +interspersed with lamps, and enveloped, oppressed, penetrated, +choked, and suffocated by the blackness of a wet London night, +which is composed of soot and drops of water.</p> + +<p>Brett Street was not very far away. It branched off, +narrow, from the side of an open triangular space surrounded by +dark and mysterious houses, temples of petty commerce emptied of +traders for the night. Only a fruiterer’s stall at +the corner made a violent blaze of light and colour. Beyond +all was black, and the few people passing in that direction +vanished at one stride beyond the glowing heaps of oranges and +lemons. No footsteps echoed. They would never be +heard of again. The adventurous head of the Special Crimes +Department watched these disappearances from a distance with an +interested eye. He felt light-hearted, as though he had +been ambushed all alone in a jungle many thousands of miles away +from departmental desks and official inkstands. This +joyousness and dispersion of thought before a task of some +importance seems to prove that this world of ours is not such a +very serious affair after all. For the Assistant +Commissioner was not constitutionally inclined to levity.</p> + +<p>The policeman on the beat projected his sombre and moving form +against the luminous glory of oranges and lemons, and entered +Brett Street without haste. The Assistant Commissioner, as +though he were a member of the criminal classes, lingered out of +sight, awaiting his return. But this constable seemed to be +lost for ever to the force. He never returned: must have +gone out at the other end of Brett Street.</p> + +<p>The Assistant Commissioner, reaching this conclusion, entered +the street in his turn, and came upon a large van arrested in +front of the dimly lit window-panes of a carter’s +eating-house. The man was refreshing himself inside, and +the horses, their big heads lowered to the ground, fed out of +nose-bags steadily. Farther on, on the opposite side of the +street, another suspect patch of dim light issued from Mr +Verloc’s shop front, hung with papers, heaving with vague +piles of cardboard boxes and the shapes of books. The +Assistant Commissioner stood observing it across the +roadway. There could be no mistake. By the side of +the front window, encumbered by the shadows of nondescript +things, the door, standing ajar, let escape on the pavement a +narrow, clear streak of gas-light within.</p> + +<p>Behind the Assistant Commissioner the van and horses, merged +into one mass, seemed something alive—a square-backed black +monster blocking half the street, with sudden iron-shod +stampings, fierce jingles, and heavy, blowing sighs. The +harshly festive, ill-omened glare of a large and prosperous +public-house faced the other end of Brett Street across a wide +road. This barrier of blazing lights, opposing the shadows +gathered about the humble abode of Mr Verloc’s domestic +happiness, seemed to drive the obscurity of the street back upon +itself, make it more sullen, brooding, and sinister.</p> + +<h2>CHAPTER VIII</h2> + +<p>Having infused by persistent importunities some sort of heat +into the chilly interest of several licensed victuallers (the +acquaintances once upon a time of her late unlucky husband), Mrs +Verloc’s mother had at last secured her admission to +certain almshouses founded by a wealthy innkeeper for the +destitute widows of the trade.</p> + +<p>This end, conceived in the astuteness of her uneasy heart, the +old woman had pursued with secrecy and determination. That +was the time when her daughter Winnie could not help passing a +remark to Mr Verloc that “mother has been spending +half-crowns and five shillings almost every day this last week in +cab fares.” But the remark was not made +grudgingly. Winnie respected her mother’s +infirmities. She was only a little surprised at this sudden +mania for locomotion. Mr Verloc, who was sufficiently +magnificent in his way, had grunted the remark impatiently aside +as interfering with his meditations. These were frequent, +deep, and prolonged; they bore upon a matter more important than +five shillings. Distinctly more important, and beyond all +comparison more difficult to consider in all its aspects with +philosophical serenity.</p> + +<p>Her object attained in astute secrecy, the heroic old woman +had made a clean breast of it to Mrs Verloc. Her soul was +triumphant and her heart tremulous. Inwardly she quaked, +because she dreaded and admired the calm, self-contained +character of her daughter Winnie, whose displeasure was made +redoubtable by a diversity of dreadful silences. But she +did not allow her inward apprehensions to rob her of the +advantage of venerable placidity conferred upon her outward +person by her triple chin, the floating ampleness of her ancient +form, and the impotent condition of her legs.</p> + +<p>The shock of the information was so unexpected that Mrs +Verloc, against her usual practice when addressed, interrupted +the domestic occupation she was engaged upon. It was the +dusting of the furniture in the parlour behind the shop. +She turned her head towards her mother.</p> + +<p>“Whatever did you want to do that for?” she +exclaimed, in scandalised astonishment.</p> + +<p>The shock must have been severe to make her depart from that +distant and uninquiring acceptance of facts which was her force +and her safeguard in life.</p> + +<p>“Weren’t you made comfortable enough +here?”</p> + +<p>She had lapsed into these inquiries, but next moment she saved +the consistency of her conduct by resuming her dusting, while the +old woman sat scared and dumb under her dingy white cap and +lustreless dark wig.</p> + +<p>Winnie finished the chair, and ran the duster along the +mahogany at the back of the horse-hair sofa on which Mr Verloc +loved to take his ease in hat and overcoat. She was intent +on her work, but presently she permitted herself another +question.</p> + +<p>“How in the world did you manage it, mother?”</p> + +<p>As not affecting the inwardness of things, which it was Mrs +Verloc’s principle to ignore, this curiosity was +excusable. It bore merely on the methods. The old +woman welcomed it eagerly as bringing forward something that +could be talked about with much sincerity.</p> + +<p>She favoured her daughter by an exhaustive answer, full of +names and enriched by side comments upon the ravages of time as +observed in the alteration of human countenances. The names +were principally the names of licensed +victuallers—“poor daddy’s friends, my +dear.” She enlarged with special appreciation on the +kindness and condescension of a large brewer, a Baronet and an M. +P., the Chairman of the Governors of the Charity. She +expressed herself thus warmly because she had been allowed to +interview by appointment his Private Secretary—“a +very polite gentleman, all in black, with a gentle, sad voice, +but so very, very thin and quiet. He was like a shadow, my +dear.”</p> + +<p>Winnie, prolonging her dusting operations till the tale was +told to the end, walked out of the parlour into the kitchen (down +two steps) in her usual manner, without the slightest +comment.</p> + +<p>Shedding a few tears in sign of rejoicing at her +daughter’s mansuetude in this terrible affair, Mrs +Verloc’s mother gave play to her astuteness in the +direction of her furniture, because it was her own; and sometimes +she wished it hadn’t been. Heroism is all very well, +but there are circumstances when the disposal of a few tables and +chairs, brass bedsteads, and so on, may be big with remote and +disastrous consequences. She required a few pieces herself, +the Foundation which, after many importunities, had gathered her +to its charitable breast, giving nothing but bare planks and +cheaply papered bricks to the objects of its solicitude. +The delicacy guiding her choice to the least valuable and most +dilapidated articles passed unacknowledged, because +Winnie’s philosophy consisted in not taking notice of the +inside of facts; she assumed that mother took what suited her +best. As to Mr Verloc, his intense meditation, like a sort +of Chinese wall, isolated him completely from the phenomena of +this world of vain effort and illusory appearances.</p> + +<p>Her selection made, the disposal of the rest became a +perplexing question in a particular way. She was leaving it +in Brett Street, of course. But she had two children. +Winnie was provided for by her sensible union with that excellent +husband, Mr Verloc. Stevie was destitute—and a little +peculiar. His position had to be considered before the +claims of legal justice and even the promptings of +partiality. The possession of the furniture would not be in +any sense a provision. He ought to have it—the poor +boy. But to give it to him would be like tampering with his +position of complete dependence. It was a sort of claim +which she feared to weaken. Moreover, the susceptibilities +of Mr Verloc would perhaps not brook being beholden to his +brother-in-law for the chairs he sat on. In a long +experience of gentlemen lodgers, Mrs Verloc’s mother had +acquired a dismal but resigned notion of the fantastic side of +human nature. What if Mr Verloc suddenly took it into his +head to tell Stevie to take his blessed sticks somewhere out of +that? A division, on the other hand, however carefully +made, might give some cause of offence to Winnie. No, +Stevie must remain destitute and dependent. And at the +moment of leaving Brett Street she had said to her daughter: +“No use waiting till I am dead, is there? Everything +I leave here is altogether your own now, my dear.”</p> + +<p>Winnie, with her hat on, silent behind her mother’s +back, went on arranging the collar of the old woman’s +cloak. She got her hand-bag, an umbrella, with an impassive +face. The time had come for the expenditure of the sum of +three-and-sixpence on what might well be supposed the last cab +drive of Mrs Verloc’s mother’s life. They went +out at the shop door.</p> + +<p>The conveyance awaiting them would have illustrated the +proverb that “truth can be more cruel than +caricature,” if such a proverb existed. Crawling +behind an infirm horse, a metropolitan hackney carriage drew up +on wobbly wheels and with a maimed driver on the box. This +last peculiarity caused some embarrassment. Catching sight +of a hooked iron contrivance protruding from the left sleeve of +the man’s coat, Mrs Verloc’s mother lost suddenly the +heroic courage of these days. She really couldn’t +trust herself. “What do you think, +Winnie?” She hung back. The passionate +expostulations of the big-faced cabman seemed to be squeezed out +of a blocked throat. Leaning over from his box, he +whispered with mysterious indignation. What was the matter +now? Was it possible to treat a man so? His enormous +and unwashed countenance flamed red in the muddy stretch of the +street. Was it likely they would have given him a licence, +he inquired desperately, if—</p> + +<p>The police constable of the locality quieted him by a friendly +glance; then addressing himself to the two women without marked +consideration, said:</p> + +<p>“He’s been driving a cab for twenty years. I +never knew him to have an accident.”</p> + +<p>“Accident!” shouted the driver in a scornful +whisper.</p> + +<p>The policeman’s testimony settled it. The modest +assemblage of seven people, mostly under age, dispersed. +Winnie followed her mother into the cab. Stevie climbed on +the box. His vacant mouth and distressed eyes depicted the +state of his mind in regard to the transactions which were taking +place. In the narrow streets the progress of the journey +was made sensible to those within by the near fronts of the +houses gliding past slowly and shakily, with a great rattle and +jingling of glass, as if about to collapse behind the cab; and +the infirm horse, with the harness hung over his sharp backbone +flapping very loose about his thighs, appeared to be dancing +mincingly on his toes with infinite patience. Later on, in +the wider space of Whitehall, all visual evidences of motion +became imperceptible. The rattle and jingle of glass went +on indefinitely in front of the long Treasury building—and +time itself seemed to stand still.</p> + +<p>At last Winnie observed: “This isn’t a very good +horse.”</p> + +<p>Her eyes gleamed in the shadow of the cab straight ahead, +immovable. On the box, Stevie shut his vacant mouth first, +in order to ejaculate earnestly: “Don’t.”</p> + +<p>The driver, holding high the reins twisted around the hook, +took no notice. Perhaps he had not heard. +Stevie’s breast heaved.</p> + +<p>“Don’t whip.”</p> + +<p>The man turned slowly his bloated and sodden face of many +colours bristling with white hairs. His little red eyes +glistened with moisture. His big lips had a violet +tint. They remained closed. With the dirty back of +his whip-hand he rubbed the stubble sprouting on his enormous +chin.</p> + +<p>“You mustn’t,” stammered out Stevie +violently. “It hurts.”</p> + +<p>“Mustn’t whip,” queried the other in a +thoughtful whisper, and immediately whipped. He did this, +not because his soul was cruel and his heart evil, but because he +had to earn his fare. And for a time the walls of St +Stephen’s, with its towers and pinnacles, contemplated in +immobility and silence a cab that jingled. It rolled too, +however. But on the bridge there was a commotion. +Stevie suddenly proceeded to get down from the box. There +were shouts on the pavement, people ran forward, the driver +pulled up, whispering curses of indignation and +astonishment. Winnie lowered the window, and put her head +out, white as a ghost. In the depths of the cab, her mother +was exclaiming, in tones of anguish: “Is that boy +hurt? Is that boy hurt?”</p> + +<p>Stevie was not hurt, he had not even fallen, but excitement as +usual had robbed him of the power of connected speech. He +could do no more than stammer at the window. “Too +heavy. Too heavy.” Winnie put out her hand on +to his shoulder.</p> + +<p>“Stevie! Get up on the box directly, and +don’t try to get down again.”</p> + +<p>“No. No. Walk. Must walk.”</p> + +<p>In trying to state the nature of that necessity he stammered +himself into utter incoherence. No physical impossibility +stood in the way of his whim. Stevie could have managed +easily to keep pace with the infirm, dancing horse without +getting out of breath. But his sister withheld her consent +decisively. “The idea! Whoever heard of such a +thing! Run after a cab!” Her mother, frightened +and helpless in the depths of the conveyance, entreated: +“Oh, don’t let him, Winnie. He’ll get +lost. Don’t let him.”</p> + +<p>“Certainly not. What next! Mr Verloc will be +sorry to hear of this nonsense, Stevie,—I can tell +you. He won’t be happy at all.”</p> + +<p>The idea of Mr Verloc’s grief and unhappiness acting as +usual powerfully upon Stevie’s fundamentally docile +disposition, he abandoned all resistance, and climbed up again on +the box, with a face of despair.</p> + +<p>The cabby turned at him his enormous and inflamed countenance +truculently. “Don’t you go for trying this +silly game again, young fellow.”</p> + +<p>After delivering himself thus in a stern whisper, strained +almost to extinction, he drove on, ruminating solemnly. To +his mind the incident remained somewhat obscure. But his +intellect, though it had lost its pristine vivacity in the +benumbing years of sedentary exposure to the weather, lacked not +independence or sanity. Gravely he dismissed the hypothesis +of Stevie being a drunken young nipper.</p> + +<p>Inside the cab the spell of silence, in which the two women +had endured shoulder to shoulder the jolting, rattling, and +jingling of the journey, had been broken by Stevie’s +outbreak. Winnie raised her voice.</p> + +<p>“You’ve done what you wanted, mother. +You’ll have only yourself to thank for it if you +aren’t happy afterwards. And I don’t think +you’ll be. That I don’t. Weren’t +you comfortable enough in the house? Whatever +people’ll think of us—you throwing yourself like this +on a Charity?”</p> + +<p>“My dear,” screamed the old woman earnestly above +the noise, “you’ve been the best of daughters to +me. As to Mr Verloc—there—”</p> + +<p>Words failing her on the subject of Mr Verloc’s +excellence, she turned her old tearful eyes to the roof of the +cab. Then she averted her head on the pretence of looking +out of the window, as if to judge of their progress. It was +insignificant, and went on close to the curbstone. Night, +the early dirty night, the sinister, noisy, hopeless and rowdy +night of South London, had overtaken her on her last cab +drive. In the gas-light of the low-fronted shops her big +cheeks glowed with an orange hue under a black and mauve +bonnet.</p> + +<p>Mrs Verloc’s mother’s complexion had become yellow +by the effect of age and from a natural predisposition to +biliousness, favoured by the trials of a difficult and worried +existence, first as wife, then as widow. It was a +complexion, that under the influence of a blush would take on an +orange tint. And this woman, modest indeed but hardened in +the fires of adversity, of an age, moreover, when blushes are not +expected, had positively blushed before her daughter. In +the privacy of a four-wheeler, on her way to a charity cottage +(one of a row) which by the exiguity of its dimensions and the +simplicity of its accommodation, might well have been devised in +kindness as a place of training for the still more straitened +circumstances of the grave, she was forced to hide from her own +child a blush of remorse and shame.</p> + +<p>Whatever people will think? She knew very well what they +did think, the people Winnie had in her mind—the old +friends of her husband, and others too, whose interest she had +solicited with such flattering success. She had not known +before what a good beggar she could be. But she guessed +very well what inference was drawn from her application. On +account of that shrinking delicacy, which exists side by side +with aggressive brutality in masculine nature, the inquiries into +her circumstances had not been pushed very far. She had +checked them by a visible compression of the lips and some +display of an emotion determined to be eloquently silent. +And the men would become suddenly incurious, after the manner of +their kind. She congratulated herself more than once on +having nothing to do with women, who being naturally more callous +and avid of details, would have been anxious to be exactly +informed by what sort of unkind conduct her daughter and +son-in-law had driven her to that sad extremity. It was +only before the Secretary of the great brewer M. P. and Chairman +of the Charity, who, acting for his principal, felt bound to be +conscientiously inquisitive as to the real circumstances of the +applicant, that she had burst into tears outright and aloud, as a +cornered woman will weep. The thin and polite gentleman, +after contemplating her with an air of being “struck all of +a heap,” abandoned his position under the cover of soothing +remarks. She must not distress herself. The deed of +the Charity did not absolutely specify “childless +widows.” In fact, it did not by any means disqualify +her. But the discretion of the Committee must be an +informed discretion. One could understand very well her +unwillingness to be a burden, etc. etc. Thereupon, to his +profound disappointment, Mrs Verloc’s mother wept some more +with an augmented vehemence.</p> + +<p>The tears of that large female in a dark, dusty wig, and +ancient silk dress festooned with dingy white cotton lace, were +the tears of genuine distress. She had wept because she was +heroic and unscrupulous and full of love for both her +children. Girls frequently get sacrificed to the welfare of +the boys. In this case she was sacrificing Winnie. By +the suppression of truth she was slandering her. Of course, +Winnie was independent, and need not care for the opinion of +people that she would never see and who would never see her; +whereas poor Stevie had nothing in the world he could call his +own except his mother’s heroism and unscrupulousness.</p> + +<p>The first sense of security following on Winnie’s +marriage wore off in time (for nothing lasts), and Mrs +Verloc’s mother, in the seclusion of the back bedroom, had +recalled the teaching of that experience which the world +impresses upon a widowed woman. But she had recalled it +without vain bitterness; her store of resignation amounted almost +to dignity. She reflected stoically that everything decays, +wears out, in this world; that the way of kindness should be made +easy to the well disposed; that her daughter Winnie was a most +devoted sister, and a very self-confident wife indeed. As +regards Winnie’s sisterly devotion, her stoicism +flinched. She excepted that sentiment from the rule of +decay affecting all things human and some things divine. +She could not help it; not to do so would have frightened her too +much. But in considering the conditions of her +daughter’s married state, she rejected firmly all +flattering illusions. She took the cold and reasonable view +that the less strain put on Mr Verloc’s kindness the longer +its effects were likely to last. That excellent man loved +his wife, of course, but he would, no doubt, prefer to keep as +few of her relations as was consistent with the proper display of +that sentiment. It would be better if its whole effect were +concentrated on poor Stevie. And the heroic old woman +resolved on going away from her children as an act of devotion +and as a move of deep policy.</p> + +<p>The “virtue” of this policy consisted in this (Mrs +Verloc’s mother was subtle in her way), that Stevie’s +moral claim would be strengthened. The poor boy—a +good, useful boy, if a little peculiar—had not a sufficient +standing. He had been taken over with his mother, somewhat +in the same way as the furniture of the Belgravian mansion had +been taken over, as if on the ground of belonging to her +exclusively. What will happen, she asked herself (for Mrs +Verloc’s mother was in a measure imaginative), when I +die? And when she asked herself that question it was with +dread. It was also terrible to think that she would not +then have the means of knowing what happened to the poor +boy. But by making him over to his sister, by going thus +away, she gave him the advantage of a directly dependent +position. This was the more subtle sanction of Mrs +Verloc’s mother’s heroism and unscrupulousness. +Her act of abandonment was really an arrangement for settling her +son permanently in life. Other people made material +sacrifices for such an object, she in that way. It was the +only way. Moreover, she would be able to see how it +worked. Ill or well she would avoid the horrible +incertitude on the death-bed. But it was hard, hard, +cruelly hard.</p> + +<p>The cab rattled, jingled, jolted; in fact, the last was quite +extraordinary. By its disproportionate violence and +magnitude it obliterated every sensation of onward movement; and +the effect was of being shaken in a stationary apparatus like a +mediæval device for the punishment of crime, or some very +newfangled invention for the cure of a sluggish liver. It +was extremely distressing; and the raising of Mrs Verloc’s +mother’s voice sounded like a wail of pain.</p> + +<p>“I know, my dear, you’ll come to see me as often +as you can spare the time. Won’t you?”</p> + +<p>“Of course,” answered Winnie shortly, staring +straight before her.</p> + +<p>And the cab jolted in front of a steamy, greasy shop in a +blaze of gas and in the smell of fried fish.</p> + +<p>The old woman raised a wail again.</p> + +<p>“And, my dear, I must see that poor boy every +Sunday. He won’t mind spending the day with his old +mother—”</p> + +<p>Winnie screamed out stolidly:</p> + +<p>“Mind! I should think not. That poor boy +will miss you something cruel. I wish you had thought a +little of that, mother.”</p> + +<p>Not think of it! The heroic woman swallowed a playful +and inconvenient object like a billiard ball, which had tried to +jump out of her throat. Winnie sat mute for a while, +pouting at the front of the cab, then snapped out, which was an +unusual tone with her:</p> + +<p>“I expect I’ll have a job with him at first, +he’ll be that restless—”</p> + +<p>“Whatever you do, don’t let him worry your +husband, my dear.”</p> + +<p>Thus they discussed on familiar lines the bearings of a new +situation. And the cab jolted. Mrs Verloc’s +mother expressed some misgivings. Could Stevie be trusted +to come all that way alone? Winnie maintained that he was +much less “absent-minded” now. They agreed as +to that. It could not be denied. Much +less—hardly at all. They shouted at each other in the +jingle with comparative cheerfulness. But suddenly the +maternal anxiety broke out afresh. There were two omnibuses +to take, and a short walk between. It was too +difficult! The old woman gave way to grief and +consternation.</p> + +<p>Winnie stared forward.</p> + +<p>“Don’t you upset yourself like this, mother. +You must see him, of course.”</p> + +<p>“No, my dear. I’ll try not to.”</p> + +<p>She mopped her streaming eyes.</p> + +<p>“But you can’t spare the time to come with him, +and if he should forget himself and lose his way and somebody +spoke to him sharply, his name and address may slip his memory, +and he’ll remain lost for days and days—”</p> + +<p>The vision of a workhouse infirmary for poor Stevie—if +only during inquiries—wrung her heart. For she was a +proud woman. Winnie’s stare had grown hard, intent, +inventive.</p> + +<p>“I can’t bring him to you myself every +week,” she cried. “But don’t you worry, +mother. I’ll see to it that he don’t get lost +for long.”</p> + +<p>They felt a peculiar bump; a vision of brick pillars lingered +before the rattling windows of the cab; a sudden cessation of +atrocious jolting and uproarious jingling dazed the two +women. What had happened? They sat motionless and +scared in the profound stillness, till the door came open, and a +rough, strained whispering was heard:</p> + +<p>“Here you are!”</p> + +<p>A range of gabled little houses, each with one dim yellow +window, on the ground floor, surrounded the dark open space of a +grass plot planted with shrubs and railed off from the patchwork +of lights and shadows in the wide road, resounding with the dull +rumble of traffic. Before the door of one of these tiny +houses—one without a light in the little downstairs +window—the cab had come to a standstill. Mrs +Verloc’s mother got out first, backwards, with a key in her +hand. Winnie lingered on the flagstone path to pay the +cabman. Stevie, after helping to carry inside a lot of +small parcels, came out and stood under the light of a gas-lamp +belonging to the Charity. The cabman looked at the pieces +of silver, which, appearing very minute in his big, grimy palm, +symbolised the insignificant results which reward the ambitious +courage and toil of a mankind whose day is short on this earth of +evil.</p> + +<p>He had been paid decently—four one-shilling +pieces—and he contemplated them in perfect stillness, as if +they had been the surprising terms of a melancholy problem. +The slow transfer of that treasure to an inner pocket demanded +much laborious groping in the depths of decayed clothing. +His form was squat and without flexibility. Stevie, +slender, his shoulders a little up, and his hands thrust deep in +the side pockets of his warm overcoat, stood at the edge of the +path, pouting.</p> + +<p>The cabman, pausing in his deliberate movements, seemed struck +by some misty recollection.</p> + +<p>“Oh! ’Ere you are, young fellow,” he +whispered. “You’ll know him +again—won’t you?”</p> + +<p>Stevie was staring at the horse, whose hind quarters appeared +unduly elevated by the effect of emaciation. The little +stiff tail seemed to have been fitted in for a heartless joke; +and at the other end the thin, flat neck, like a plank covered +with old horse-hide, drooped to the ground under the weight of an +enormous bony head. The ears hung at different angles, +negligently; and the macabre figure of that mute dweller on the +earth steamed straight up from ribs and backbone in the muggy +stillness of the air.</p> + +<p>The cabman struck lightly Stevie’s breast with the iron +hook protruding from a ragged, greasy sleeve.</p> + +<p>“Look ’ere, young feller. ’Ow’d +<i>you</i> like to sit behind this ’oss up to two +o’clock in the morning p’raps?”</p> + +<p>Stevie looked vacantly into the fierce little eyes with +red-edged lids.</p> + +<p>“He ain’t lame,” pursued the other, +whispering with energy. “He ain’t got no sore +places on ’im. ’Ere he is. ’Ow +would <i>you</i> like—”</p> + +<p>His strained, extinct voice invested his utterance with a +character of vehement secrecy. Stevie’s vacant gaze +was changing slowly into dread.</p> + +<p>“You may well look! Till three and four +o’clock in the morning. Cold and ’ungry. +Looking for fares. Drunks.”</p> + +<p>His jovial purple cheeks bristled with white hairs; and like +Virgil’s Silenus, who, his face smeared with the juice of +berries, discoursed of Olympian Gods to the innocent shepherds of +Sicily, he talked to Stevie of domestic matters and the affairs +of men whose sufferings are great and immortality by no means +assured.</p> + +<p>“I am a night cabby, I am,” he whispered, with a +sort of boastful exasperation. “I’ve got to +take out what they will blooming well give me at the yard. +I’ve got my missus and four kids at ’ome.”</p> + +<p>The monstrous nature of that declaration of paternity seemed +to strike the world dumb. A silence reigned during which +the flanks of the old horse, the steed of apocalyptic misery, +smoked upwards in the light of the charitable gas-lamp.</p> + +<p>The cabman grunted, then added in his mysterious whisper:</p> + +<p>“This ain’t an easy world.” +Stevie’s face had been twitching for some time, and at last +his feelings burst out in their usual concise form.</p> + +<p>“Bad! Bad!”</p> + +<p>His gaze remained fixed on the ribs of the horse, +self-conscious and sombre, as though he were afraid to look about +him at the badness of the world. And his slenderness, his +rosy lips and pale, clear complexion, gave him the aspect of a +delicate boy, notwithstanding the fluffy growth of golden hair on +his cheeks. He pouted in a scared way like a child. +The cabman, short and broad, eyed him with his fierce little eyes +that seemed to smart in a clear and corroding liquid.</p> + +<p>“’Ard on ’osses, but dam’ sight +’arder on poor chaps like me,” he wheezed just +audibly.</p> + +<p>“Poor! Poor!” stammered out Stevie, pushing +his hands deeper into his pockets with convulsive sympathy. +He could say nothing; for the tenderness to all pain and all +misery, the desire to make the horse happy and the cabman happy, +had reached the point of a bizarre longing to take them to bed +with him. And that, he knew, was impossible. For +Stevie was not mad. It was, as it were, a symbolic longing; +and at the same time it was very distinct, because springing from +experience, the mother of wisdom. Thus when as a child he +cowered in a dark corner scared, wretched, sore, and miserable +with the black, black misery of the soul, his sister Winnie used +to come along, and carry him off to bed with her, as into a +heaven of consoling peace. Stevie, though apt to forget +mere facts, such as his name and address for instance, had a +faithful memory of sensations. To be taken into a bed of +compassion was the supreme remedy, with the only one disadvantage +of being difficult of application on a large scale. And +looking at the cabman, Stevie perceived this clearly, because he +was reasonable.</p> + +<p>The cabman went on with his leisurely preparations as if +Stevie had not existed. He made as if to hoist himself on +the box, but at the last moment from some obscure motive, perhaps +merely from disgust with carriage exercise, desisted. He +approached instead the motionless partner of his labours, and +stooping to seize the bridle, lifted up the big, weary head to +the height of his shoulder with one effort of his right arm, like +a feat of strength.</p> + +<p>“Come on,” he whispered secretly.</p> + +<p>Limping, he led the cab away. There was an air of +austerity in this departure, the scrunched gravel of the drive +crying out under the slowly turning wheels, the horse’s +lean thighs moving with ascetic deliberation away from the light +into the obscurity of the open space bordered dimly by the +pointed roofs and the feebly shining windows of the little +alms-houses. The plaint of the gravel travelled slowly all +round the drive. Between the lamps of the charitable +gateway the slow cortege reappeared, lighted up for a moment, the +short, thick man limping busily, with the horse’s head held +aloft in his fist, the lank animal walking in stiff and forlorn +dignity, the dark, low box on wheels rolling behind comically +with an air of waddling. They turned to the left. +There was a pub down the street, within fifty yards of the +gate.</p> + +<p>Stevie left alone beside the private lamp-post of the Charity, +his hands thrust deep into his pockets, glared with vacant +sulkiness. At the bottom of his pockets his incapable weak +hands were clinched hard into a pair of angry fists. In the +face of anything which affected directly or indirectly his morbid +dread of pain, Stevie ended by turning vicious. A +magnanimous indignation swelled his frail chest to bursting, and +caused his candid eyes to squint. Supremely wise in knowing +his own powerlessness, Stevie was not wise enough to restrain his +passions. The tenderness of his universal charity had two +phases as indissolubly joined and connected as the reverse and +obverse sides of a medal. The anguish of immoderate +compassion was succeeded by the pain of an innocent but pitiless +rage. Those two states expressing themselves outwardly by +the same signs of futile bodily agitation, his sister Winnie +soothed his excitement without ever fathoming its twofold +character. Mrs Verloc wasted no portion of this transient +life in seeking for fundamental information. This is a sort +of economy having all the appearances and some of the advantages +of prudence. Obviously it may be good for one not to know +too much. And such a view accords very well with +constitutional indolence.</p> + +<p>On that evening on which it may be said that Mrs +Verloc’s mother having parted for good from her children +had also departed this life, Winnie Verloc did not investigate +her brother’s psychology. The poor boy was excited, +of course. After once more assuring the old woman on the +threshold that she would know how to guard against the risk of +Stevie losing himself for very long on his pilgrimages of filial +piety, she took her brother’s arm to walk away. +Stevie did not even mutter to himself, but with the special sense +of sisterly devotion developed in her earliest infancy, she felt +that the boy was very much excited indeed. Holding tight to +his arm, under the appearance of leaning on it, she thought of +some words suitable to the occasion.</p> + +<p>“Now, Stevie, you must look well after me at the +crossings, and get first into the ’bus, like a good +brother.”</p> + +<p>This appeal to manly protection was received by Stevie with +his usual docility. It flattered him. He raised his +head and threw out his chest.</p> + +<p>“Don’t be nervous, Winnie. Mustn’t be +nervous! ’Bus all right,” he answered in a +brusque, slurring stammer partaking of the timorousness of a +child and the resolution of a man. He advanced fearlessly +with the woman on his arm, but his lower lip dropped. +Nevertheless, on the pavement of the squalid and wide +thoroughfare, whose poverty in all the amenities of life stood +foolishly exposed by a mad profusion of gas-lights, their +resemblance to each other was so pronounced as to strike the +casual passers-by.</p> + +<p>Before the doors of the public-house at the corner, where the +profusion of gas-light reached the height of positive wickedness, +a four-wheeled cab standing by the curbstone with no one on the +box, seemed cast out into the gutter on account of irremediable +decay. Mrs Verloc recognised the conveyance. Its +aspect was so profoundly lamentable, with such a perfection of +grotesque misery and weirdness of macabre detail, as if it were +the Cab of Death itself, that Mrs Verloc, with that ready +compassion of a woman for a horse (when she is not sitting behind +him), exclaimed vaguely:</p> + +<p>“Poor brute!”</p> + +<p>Hanging back suddenly, Stevie inflicted an arresting jerk upon +his sister.</p> + +<p>“Poor! Poor!” he ejaculated +appreciatively. “Cabman poor too. He told me +himself.”</p> + +<p>The contemplation of the infirm and lonely steed overcame +him. Jostled, but obstinate, he would remain there, trying +to express the view newly opened to his sympathies of the human +and equine misery in close association. But it was very +difficult. “Poor brute, poor people!” was all +he could repeat. It did not seem forcible enough, and he +came to a stop with an angry splutter: “Shame!” +Stevie was no master of phrases, and perhaps for that very reason +his thoughts lacked clearness and precision. But he felt +with greater completeness and some profundity. That little +word contained all his sense of indignation and horror at one +sort of wretchedness having to feed upon the anguish of the +other—at the poor cabman beating the poor horse in the +name, as it were, of his poor kids at home. And Stevie knew +what it was to be beaten. He knew it from experience. +It was a bad world. Bad! Bad!</p> + +<p>Mrs Verloc, his only sister, guardian, and protector, could +not pretend to such depths of insight. Moreover, she had +not experienced the magic of the cabman’s eloquence. +She was in the dark as to the inwardness of the word +“Shame.” And she said placidly:</p> + +<p>“Come along, Stevie. You can’t help +that.”</p> + +<p>The docile Stevie went along; but now he went along without +pride, shamblingly, and muttering half words, and even words that +would have been whole if they had not been made up of halves that +did not belong to each other. It was as though he had been +trying to fit all the words he could remember to his sentiments +in order to get some sort of corresponding idea. And, as a +matter of fact, he got it at last. He hung back to utter it +at once.</p> + +<p>“Bad world for poor people.”</p> + +<p>Directly he had expressed that thought he became aware that it +was familiar to him already in all its consequences. This +circumstance strengthened his conviction immensely, but also +augmented his indignation. Somebody, he felt, ought to be +punished for it—punished with great severity. Being +no sceptic, but a moral creature, he was in a manner at the mercy +of his righteous passions.</p> + +<p>“Beastly!” he added concisely.</p> + +<p>It was clear to Mrs Verloc that he was greatly excited.</p> + +<p>“Nobody can help that,” she said. “Do +come along. Is that the way you’re taking care of +me?”</p> + +<p>Stevie mended his pace obediently. He prided himself on +being a good brother. His morality, which was very +complete, demanded that from him. Yet he was pained at the +information imparted by his sister Winnie who was good. +Nobody could help that! He came along gloomily, but +presently he brightened up. Like the rest of mankind, +perplexed by the mystery of the universe, he had his moments of +consoling trust in the organised powers of the earth.</p> + +<p>“Police,” he suggested confidently.</p> + +<p>“The police aren’t for that,” observed Mrs +Verloc cursorily, hurrying on her way.</p> + +<p>Stevie’s face lengthened considerably. He was +thinking. The more intense his thinking, the slacker was +the droop of his lower jaw.</p> + +<p>And it was with an aspect of hopeless vacancy that he gave up +his intellectual enterprise.</p> + +<p>“Not for that?” he mumbled, resigned but +surprised. “Not for that?” He had formed +for himself an ideal conception of the metropolitan police as a +sort of benevolent institution for the suppression of evil. +The notion of benevolence especially was very closely associated +with his sense of the power of the men in blue. He had +liked all police constables tenderly, with a guileless +trustfulness. And he was pained. He was irritated, +too, by a suspicion of duplicity in the members of the +force. For Stevie was frank and as open as the day +himself. What did they mean by pretending then? +Unlike his sister, who put her trust in face values, he wished to +go to the bottom of the matter. He carried on his inquiry +by means of an angry challenge.</p> + +<p>“What for are they then, Winn? What are they +for? Tell me.”</p> + +<p>Winnie disliked controversy. But fearing most a fit of +black depression consequent on Stevie missing his mother very +much at first, she did not altogether decline the +discussion. Guiltless of all irony, she answered yet in a +form which was not perhaps unnatural in the wife of Mr Verloc, +Delegate of the Central Red Committee, personal friend of certain +anarchists, and a votary of social revolution.</p> + +<p>“Don’t you know what the police are for, +Stevie? They are there so that them as have nothing +shouldn’t take anything away from them who have.”</p> + +<p>She avoided using the verb “to steal,” because it +always made her brother uncomfortable. For Stevie was +delicately honest. Certain simple principles had been +instilled into him so anxiously (on account of his +“queerness”) that the mere names of certain +transgressions filled him with horror. He had been always +easily impressed by speeches. He was impressed and startled +now, and his intelligence was very alert.</p> + +<p>“What?” he asked at once anxiously. +“Not even if they were hungry? Mustn’t +they?”</p> + +<p>The two had paused in their walk.</p> + +<p>“Not if they were ever so,” said Mrs Verloc, with +the equanimity of a person untroubled by the problem of the +distribution of wealth, and exploring the perspective of the +roadway for an omnibus of the right colour. +“Certainly not. But what’s the use of talking +about all that? You aren’t ever hungry.”</p> + +<p>She cast a swift glance at the boy, like a young man, by her +side. She saw him amiable, attractive, affectionate, and +only a little, a very little, peculiar. And she could not +see him otherwise, for he was connected with what there was of +the salt of passion in her tasteless life—the passion of +indignation, of courage, of pity, and even of +self-sacrifice. She did not add: “And you +aren’t likely ever to be as long as I live.” +But she might very well have done so, since she had taken +effectual steps to that end. Mr Verloc was a very good +husband. It was her honest impression that nobody could +help liking the boy. She cried out suddenly:</p> + +<p>“Quick, Stevie. Stop that green +’bus.”</p> + +<p>And Stevie, tremulous and important with his sister Winnie on +his arm, flung up the other high above his head at the +approaching ’bus, with complete success.</p> + +<p>An hour afterwards Mr Verloc raised his eyes from a newspaper +he was reading, or at any rate looking at, behind the counter, +and in the expiring clatter of the door-bell beheld Winnie, his +wife, enter and cross the shop on her way upstairs, followed by +Stevie, his brother-in-law. The sight of his wife was +agreeable to Mr Verloc. It was his idiosyncrasy. The +figure of his brother-in-law remained imperceptible to him +because of the morose thoughtfulness that lately had fallen like +a veil between Mr Verloc and the appearances of the world of +senses. He looked after his wife fixedly, without a word, +as though she had been a phantom. His voice for home use +was husky and placid, but now it was heard not at all. It +was not heard at supper, to which he was called by his wife in +the usual brief manner: “Adolf.” He sat down to +consume it without conviction, wearing his hat pushed far back on +his head. It was not devotion to an outdoor life, but the +frequentation of foreign cafés which was responsible for +that habit, investing with a character of unceremonious +impermanency Mr Verloc’s steady fidelity to his own +fireside. Twice at the clatter of the cracked bell he arose +without a word, disappeared into the shop, and came back +silently. During these absences Mrs Verloc, becoming +acutely aware of the vacant place at her right hand, missed her +mother very much, and stared stonily; while Stevie, from the same +reason, kept on shuffling his feet, as though the floor under the +table were uncomfortably hot. When Mr Verloc returned to +sit in his place, like the very embodiment of silence, the +character of Mrs Verloc’s stare underwent a subtle change, +and Stevie ceased to fidget with his feet, because of his great +and awed regard for his sister’s husband. He directed +at him glances of respectful compassion. Mr Verloc was +sorry. His sister Winnie had impressed upon him (in the +omnibus) that Mr Verloc would be found at home in a state of +sorrow, and must not be worried. His father’s anger, +the irritability of gentlemen lodgers, and Mr Verloc’s +predisposition to immoderate grief, had been the main sanctions +of Stevie’s self-restraint. Of these sentiments, all +easily provoked, but not always easy to understand, the last had +the greatest moral efficiency—because Mr Verloc was +<i>good</i>. His mother and his sister had established that +ethical fact on an unshakable foundation. They had +established, erected, consecrated it behind Mr Verloc’s +back, for reasons that had nothing to do with abstract +morality. And Mr Verloc was not aware of it. It is +but bare justice to him to say that he had no notion of appearing +good to Stevie. Yet so it was. He was even the only +man so qualified in Stevie’s knowledge, because the +gentlemen lodgers had been too transient and too remote to have +anything very distinct about them but perhaps their boots; and as +regards the disciplinary measures of his father, the desolation +of his mother and sister shrank from setting up a theory of +goodness before the victim. It would have been too +cruel. And it was even possible that Stevie would not have +believed them. As far as Mr Verloc was concerned, nothing +could stand in the way of Stevie’s belief. Mr Verloc +was obviously yet mysteriously <i>good</i>. And the grief +of a good man is august.</p> + +<p>Stevie gave glances of reverential compassion to his +brother-in-law. Mr Verloc was sorry. The brother of +Winnie had never before felt himself in such close communion with +the mystery of that man’s goodness. It was an +understandable sorrow. And Stevie himself was sorry. +He was very sorry. The same sort of sorrow. And his +attention being drawn to this unpleasant state, Stevie shuffled +his feet. His feelings were habitually manifested by the +agitation of his limbs.</p> + +<p>“Keep your feet quiet, dear,” said Mrs Verloc, +with authority and tenderness; then turning towards her husband +in an indifferent voice, the masterly achievement of instinctive +tact: “Are you going out to-night?” she asked.</p> + +<p>The mere suggestion seemed repugnant to Mr Verloc. He +shook his head moodily, and then sat still with downcast eyes, +looking at the piece of cheese on his plate for a whole +minute. At the end of that time he got up, and went +out—went right out in the clatter of the shop-door +bell. He acted thus inconsistently, not from any desire to +make himself unpleasant, but because of an unconquerable +restlessness. It was no earthly good going out. He +could not find anywhere in London what he wanted. But he +went out. He led a cortege of dismal thoughts along dark +streets, through lighted streets, in and out of two flash bars, +as if in a half-hearted attempt to make a night of it, and +finally back again to his menaced home, where he sat down +fatigued behind the counter, and they crowded urgently round him, +like a pack of hungry black hounds. After locking up the +house and putting out the gas he took them upstairs with +him—a dreadful escort for a man going to bed. His +wife had preceded him some time before, and with her ample form +defined vaguely under the counterpane, her head on the pillow, +and a hand under the cheek offered to his distraction the view of +early drowsiness arguing the possession of an equable soul. +Her big eyes stared wide open, inert and dark against the snowy +whiteness of the linen. She did not move.</p> + +<p>She had an equable soul. She felt profoundly that things +do not stand much looking into. She made her force and her +wisdom of that instinct. But the taciturnity of Mr Verloc +had been lying heavily upon her for a good many days. It +was, as a matter of fact, affecting her nerves. Recumbent +and motionless, she said placidly:</p> + +<p>“You’ll catch cold walking about in your socks +like this.”</p> + +<p>This speech, becoming the solicitude of the wife and the +prudence of the woman, took Mr Verloc unawares. He had left +his boots downstairs, but he had forgotten to put on his +slippers, and he had been turning about the bedroom on noiseless +pads like a bear in a cage. At the sound of his +wife’s voice he stopped and stared at her with a +somnambulistic, expressionless gaze so long that Mrs Verloc moved +her limbs slightly under the bed-clothes. But she did not +move her black head sunk in the white pillow one hand under her +cheek and the big, dark, unwinking eyes.</p> + +<p>Under her husband’s expressionless stare, and +remembering her mother’s empty room across the landing, she +felt an acute pang of loneliness. She had never been parted +from her mother before. They had stood by each other. +She felt that they had, and she said to herself that now mother +was gone—gone for good. Mrs Verloc had no +illusions. Stevie remained, however. And she +said:</p> + +<p>“Mother’s done what she wanted to do. +There’s no sense in it that I can see. I’m sure +she couldn’t have thought you had enough of her. +It’s perfectly wicked, leaving us like that.”</p> + +<p>Mr Verloc was not a well-read person; his range of allusive +phrases was limited, but there was a peculiar aptness in +circumstances which made him think of rats leaving a doomed +ship. He very nearly said so. He had grown suspicious +and embittered. Could it be that the old woman had such an +excellent nose? But the unreasonableness of such a +suspicion was patent, and Mr Verloc held his tongue. Not +altogether, however. He muttered heavily:</p> + +<p>“Perhaps it’s just as well.”</p> + +<p>He began to undress. Mrs Verloc kept very still, +perfectly still, with her eyes fixed in a dreamy, quiet +stare. And her heart for the fraction of a second seemed to +stand still too. That night she was “not quite +herself,” as the saying is, and it was borne upon her with +some force that a simple sentence may hold several diverse +meanings—mostly disagreeable. How was it just as +well? And why? But she did not allow herself to fall +into the idleness of barren speculation. She was rather +confirmed in her belief that things did not stand being looked +into. Practical and subtle in her way, she brought Stevie +to the front without loss of time, because in her the singleness +of purpose had the unerring nature and the force of an +instinct.</p> + +<p>“What I am going to do to cheer up that boy for the +first few days I’m sure I don’t know. +He’ll be worrying himself from morning till night before he +gets used to mother being away. And he’s such a good +boy. I couldn’t do without him.”</p> + +<p>Mr Verloc went on divesting himself of his clothing with the +unnoticing inward concentration of a man undressing in the +solitude of a vast and hopeless desert. For thus +inhospitably did this fair earth, our common inheritance, present +itself to the mental vision of Mr Verloc. All was so still +without and within that the lonely ticking of the clock on the +landing stole into the room as if for the sake of company.</p> + +<p>Mr Verloc, getting into bed on his own side, remained prone +and mute behind Mrs Verloc’s back. His thick arms +rested abandoned on the outside of the counterpane like dropped +weapons, like discarded tools. At that moment he was within +a hair’s breadth of making a clean breast of it all to his +wife. The moment seemed propitious. Looking out of +the corners of his eyes, he saw her ample shoulders draped in +white, the back of her head, with the hair done for the night in +three plaits tied up with black tapes at the ends. And he +forbore. Mr Verloc loved his wife as a wife should be +loved—that is, maritally, with the regard one has for +one’s chief possession. This head arranged for the +night, those ample shoulders, had an aspect of familiar +sacredness—the sacredness of domestic peace. She +moved not, massive and shapeless like a recumbent statue in the +rough; he remembered her wide-open eyes looking into the empty +room. She was mysterious, with the mysteriousness of living +beings. The far-famed secret agent [delta] of the late +Baron Stott-Wartenheim’s alarmist despatches was not the +man to break into such mysteries. He was easily +intimidated. And he was also indolent, with the indolence +which is so often the secret of good nature. He forbore +touching that mystery out of love, timidity, and indolence. +There would be always time enough. For several minutes he +bore his sufferings silently in the drowsy silence of the +room. And then he disturbed it by a resolute +declaration.</p> + +<p>“I am going on the Continent to-morrow.”</p> + +<p>His wife might have fallen asleep already. He could not +tell. As a matter of fact, Mrs Verloc had heard him. +Her eyes remained very wide open, and she lay very still, +confirmed in her instinctive conviction that things don’t +bear looking into very much. And yet it was nothing very +unusual for Mr Verloc to take such a trip. He renewed his +stock from Paris and Brussels. Often he went over to make +his purchases personally. A little select connection of +amateurs was forming around the shop in Brett Street, a secret +connection eminently proper for any business undertaken by Mr +Verloc, who, by a mystic accord of temperament and necessity, had +been set apart to be a secret agent all his life.</p> + +<p>He waited for a while, then added: “I’ll be away a +week or perhaps a fortnight. Get Mrs Neale to come for the +day.”</p> + +<p>Mrs Neale was the charwoman of Brett Street. Victim of +her marriage with a debauched joiner, she was oppressed by the +needs of many infant children. Red-armed, and aproned in +coarse sacking up to the arm-pits, she exhaled the anguish of the +poor in a breath of soap-suds and rum, in the uproar of +scrubbing, in the clatter of tin pails.</p> + +<p>Mrs Verloc, full of deep purpose, spoke in the tone of the +shallowest indifference.</p> + +<p>“There is no need to have the woman here all day. +I shall do very well with Stevie.”</p> + +<p>She let the lonely clock on the landing count off fifteen +ticks into the abyss of eternity, and asked:</p> + +<p>“Shall I put the light out?”</p> + +<p>Mr Verloc snapped at his wife huskily.</p> + +<p>“Put it out.”</p> + +<h2>CHAPTER IX</h2> + +<p>Mr Verloc returning from the Continent at the end of ten days, +brought back a mind evidently unrefreshed by the wonders of +foreign travel and a countenance unlighted by the joys of +home-coming. He entered in the clatter of the shop bell +with an air of sombre and vexed exhaustion. His bag in +hand, his head lowered, he strode straight behind the counter, +and let himself fall into the chair, as though he had tramped all +the way from Dover. It was early morning. Stevie, +dusting various objects displayed in the front windows, turned to +gape at him with reverence and awe.</p> + +<p>“Here!” said Mr Verloc, giving a slight kick to +the gladstone bag on the floor; and Stevie flung himself upon it, +seized it, bore it off with triumphant devotion. He was so +prompt that Mr Verloc was distinctly surprised.</p> + +<p>Already at the clatter of the shop bell Mrs Neale, +blackleading the parlour grate, had looked through the door, and +rising from her knees had gone, aproned, and grimy with +everlasting toil, to tell Mrs Verloc in the kitchen that +“there was the master come back.”</p> + +<p>Winnie came no farther than the inner shop door.</p> + +<p>“You’ll want some breakfast,” she said from +a distance.</p> + +<p>Mr Verloc moved his hands slightly, as if overcome by an +impossible suggestion. But once enticed into the parlour he +did not reject the food set before him. He ate as if in a +public place, his hat pushed off his forehead, the skirts of his +heavy overcoat hanging in a triangle on each side of the +chair. And across the length of the table covered with +brown oil-cloth Winnie, his wife, talked evenly at him the wifely +talk, as artfully adapted, no doubt, to the circumstances of this +return as the talk of Penelope to the return of the wandering +Odysseus. Mrs Verloc, however, had done no weaving during +her husband’s absence. But she had had all the +upstairs room cleaned thoroughly, had sold some wares, had seen +Mr Michaelis several times. He had told her the last time +that he was going away to live in a cottage in the country, +somewhere on the London, Chatham, and Dover line. Karl +Yundt had come too, once, led under the arm by that “wicked +old housekeeper of his.” He was “a disgusting +old man.” Of Comrade Ossipon, whom she had received +curtly, entrenched behind the counter with a stony face and a +faraway gaze, she said nothing, her mental reference to the +robust anarchist being marked by a short pause, with the faintest +possible blush. And bringing in her brother Stevie as soon +as she could into the current of domestic events, she mentioned +that the boy had moped a good deal.</p> + +<p>“It’s all along of mother leaving us like +this.”</p> + +<p>Mr Verloc neither said, “Damn!” nor yet +“Stevie be hanged!” And Mrs Verloc, not let +into the secret of his thoughts, failed to appreciate the +generosity of this restraint.</p> + +<p>“It isn’t that he doesn’t work as well as +ever,” she continued. “He’s been making +himself very useful. You’d think he couldn’t do +enough for us.”</p> + +<p>Mr Verloc directed a casual and somnolent glance at Stevie, +who sat on his right, delicate, pale-faced, his rosy mouth open +vacantly. It was not a critical glance. It had no +intention. And if Mr Verloc thought for a moment that his +wife’s brother looked uncommonly useless, it was only a +dull and fleeting thought, devoid of that force and durability +which enables sometimes a thought to move the world. +Leaning back, Mr Verloc uncovered his head. Before his +extended arm could put down the hat Stevie pounced upon it, and +bore it off reverently into the kitchen. And again Mr +Verloc was surprised.</p> + +<p>“You could do anything with that boy, Adolf,” Mrs +Verloc said, with her best air of inflexible calmness. +“He would go through fire for you. +He—”</p> + +<p>She paused attentive, her ear turned towards the door of the +kitchen.</p> + +<p>There Mrs Neale was scrubbing the floor. At +Stevie’s appearance she groaned lamentably, having observed +that he could be induced easily to bestow for the benefit of her +infant children the shilling his sister Winnie presented him with +from time to time. On all fours amongst the puddles, wet +and begrimed, like a sort of amphibious and domestic animal +living in ash-bins and dirty water, she uttered the usual +exordium: “It’s all very well for you, kept doing +nothing like a gentleman.” And she followed it with +the everlasting plaint of the poor, pathetically mendacious, +miserably authenticated by the horrible breath of cheap rum and +soap-suds. She scrubbed hard, snuffling all the time, and +talking volubly. And she was sincere. And on each +side of her thin red nose her bleared, misty eyes swam in tears, +because she felt really the want of some sort of stimulant in the +morning.</p> + +<p>In the parlour Mrs Verloc observed, with knowledge:</p> + +<p>“There’s Mrs Neale at it again with her harrowing +tales about her little children. They can’t be all so +little as she makes them out. Some of them must be big +enough by now to try to do something for themselves. It +only makes Stevie angry.”</p> + +<p>These words were confirmed by a thud as of a fist striking the +kitchen table. In the normal evolution of his sympathy +Stevie had become angry on discovering that he had no shilling in +his pocket. In his inability to relieve at once Mrs +Neale’s “little ’uns’” privations, +he felt that somebody should be made to suffer for it. Mrs +Verloc rose, and went into the kitchen to “stop that +nonsense.” And she did it firmly but gently. +She was well aware that directly Mrs Neale received her money she +went round the corner to drink ardent spirits in a mean and musty +public-house—the unavoidable station on the <i>via +dolorosa</i> of her life. Mrs Verloc’s comment upon +this practice had an unexpected profundity, as coming from a +person disinclined to look under the surface of things. +“Of course, what is she to do to keep up? If I were +like Mrs Neale I expect I wouldn’t act any +different.”</p> + +<p>In the afternoon of the same day, as Mr Verloc, coming with a +start out of the last of a long series of dozes before the +parlour fire, declared his intention of going out for a walk, +Winnie said from the shop:</p> + +<p>“I wish you would take that boy out with you, +Adolf.”</p> + +<p>For the third time that day Mr Verloc was surprised. He +stared stupidly at his wife. She continued in her steady +manner. The boy, whenever he was not doing anything, moped +in the house. It made her uneasy; it made her nervous, she +confessed. And that from the calm Winnie sounded like +exaggeration. But, in truth, Stevie moped in the striking +fashion of an unhappy domestic animal. He would go up on +the dark landing, to sit on the floor at the foot of the tall +clock, with his knees drawn up and his head in his hands. +To come upon his pallid face, with its big eyes gleaming in the +dusk, was discomposing; to think of him up there was +uncomfortable.</p> + +<p>Mr Verloc got used to the startling novelty of the idea. +He was fond of his wife as a man should be—that is, +generously. But a weighty objection presented itself to his +mind, and he formulated it.</p> + +<p>“He’ll lose sight of me perhaps, and get lost in +the street,” he said.</p> + +<p>Mrs Verloc shook her head competently.</p> + +<p>“He won’t. You don’t know him. +That boy just worships you. But if you should miss +him—”</p> + +<p>Mrs Verloc paused for a moment, but only for a moment.</p> + +<p>“You just go on, and have your walk out. +Don’t worry. He’ll be all right. +He’s sure to turn up safe here before very long.”</p> + +<p>This optimism procured for Mr Verloc his fourth surprise of +the day.</p> + +<p>“Is he?” he grunted doubtfully. But perhaps +his brother-in-law was not such an idiot as he looked. His +wife would know best. He turned away his heavy eyes, saying +huskily: “Well, let him come along, then,” and +relapsed into the clutches of black care, that perhaps prefers to +sit behind a horseman, but knows also how to tread close on the +heels of people not sufficiently well off to keep +horses—like Mr Verloc, for instance.</p> + +<p>Winnie, at the shop door, did not see this fatal attendant +upon Mr Verloc’s walks. She watched the two figures +down the squalid street, one tall and burly, the other slight and +short, with a thin neck, and the peaked shoulders raised slightly +under the large semi-transparent ears. The material of +their overcoats was the same, their hats were black and round in +shape. Inspired by the similarity of wearing apparel, Mrs +Verloc gave rein to her fancy.</p> + +<p>“Might be father and son,” she said to +herself. She thought also that Mr Verloc was as much of a +father as poor Stevie ever had in his life. She was aware +also that it was her work. And with peaceful pride she +congratulated herself on a certain resolution she had taken a few +years before. It had cost her some effort, and even a few +tears.</p> + +<p>She congratulated herself still more on observing in the +course of days that Mr Verloc seemed to be taking kindly to +Stevie’s companionship. Now, when ready to go out for +his walk, Mr Verloc called aloud to the boy, in the spirit, no +doubt, in which a man invites the attendance of the household +dog, though, of course, in a different manner. In the house +Mr Verloc could be detected staring curiously at Stevie a good +deal. His own demeanour had changed. Taciturn still, +he was not so listless. Mrs Verloc thought that he was +rather jumpy at times. It might have been regarded as an +improvement. As to Stevie, he moped no longer at the foot +of the clock, but muttered to himself in corners instead in a +threatening tone. When asked “What is it you’re +saying, Stevie?” he merely opened his mouth, and squinted +at his sister. At odd times he clenched his fists without +apparent cause, and when discovered in solitude would be scowling +at the wall, with the sheet of paper and the pencil given him for +drawing circles lying blank and idle on the kitchen table. +This was a change, but it was no improvement. Mrs Verloc +including all these vagaries under the general definition of +excitement, began to fear that Stevie was hearing more than was +good for him of her husband’s conversations with his +friends. During his “walks” Mr Verloc, of +course, met and conversed with various persons. It could +hardly be otherwise. His walks were an integral part of his +outdoor activities, which his wife had never looked deeply +into. Mrs Verloc felt that the position was delicate, but +she faced it with the same impenetrable calmness which impressed +and even astonished the customers of the shop and made the other +visitors keep their distance a little wonderingly. +No! She feared that there were things not good for Stevie +to hear of, she told her husband. It only excited the poor +boy, because he could not help them being so. Nobody +could.</p> + +<p>It was in the shop. Mr Verloc made no comment. He +made no retort, and yet the retort was obvious. But he +refrained from pointing out to his wife that the idea of making +Stevie the companion of his walks was her own, and nobody +else’s. At that moment, to an impartial observer, Mr +Verloc would have appeared more than human in his +magnanimity. He took down a small cardboard box from a +shelf, peeped in to see that the contents were all right, and put +it down gently on the counter. Not till that was done did +he break the silence, to the effect that most likely Stevie would +profit greatly by being sent out of town for a while; only he +supposed his wife could not get on without him.</p> + +<p>“Could not get on without him!” repeated Mrs +Verloc slowly. “I couldn’t get on without him +if it were for his good! The idea! Of course, I can +get on without him. But there’s nowhere for him to +go.”</p> + +<p>Mr Verloc got out some brown paper and a ball of string; and +meanwhile he muttered that Michaelis was living in a little +cottage in the country. Michaelis wouldn’t mind +giving Stevie a room to sleep in. There were no visitors +and no talk there. Michaelis was writing a book.</p> + +<p>Mrs Verloc declared her affection for Michaelis; mentioned her +abhorrence of Karl Yundt, “nasty old man”; and of +Ossipon she said nothing. As to Stevie, he could be no +other than very pleased. Mr Michaelis was always so nice +and kind to him. He seemed to like the boy. Well, the +boy was a good boy.</p> + +<p>“You too seem to have grown quite fond of him of +late,” she added, after a pause, with her inflexible +assurance.</p> + +<p>Mr Verloc tying up the cardboard box into a parcel for the +post, broke the string by an injudicious jerk, and muttered +several swear words confidentially to himself. Then raising +his tone to the usual husky mutter, he announced his willingness +to take Stevie into the country himself, and leave him all safe +with Michaelis.</p> + +<p>He carried out this scheme on the very next day. Stevie +offered no objection. He seemed rather eager, in a +bewildered sort of way. He turned his candid gaze +inquisitively to Mr Verloc’s heavy countenance at frequent +intervals, especially when his sister was not looking at +him. His expression was proud, apprehensive, and +concentrated, like that of a small child entrusted for the first +time with a box of matches and the permission to strike a +light. But Mrs Verloc, gratified by her brother’s +docility, recommended him not to dirty his clothes unduly in the +country. At this Stevie gave his sister, guardian and +protector a look, which for the first time in his life seemed to +lack the quality of perfect childlike trustfulness. It was +haughtily gloomy. Mrs Verloc smiled.</p> + +<p>“Goodness me! You needn’t be offended. +You know you do get yourself very untidy when you get a chance, +Stevie.”</p> + +<p>Mr Verloc was already gone some way down the street.</p> + +<p>Thus in consequence of her mother’s heroic proceedings, +and of her brother’s absence on this villegiature, Mrs +Verloc found herself oftener than usual all alone not only in the +shop, but in the house. For Mr Verloc had to take his +walks. She was alone longer than usual on the day of the +attempted bomb outrage in Greenwich Park, because Mr Verloc went +out very early that morning and did not come back till nearly +dusk. She did not mind being alone. She had no desire +to go out. The weather was too bad, and the shop was cosier +than the streets. Sitting behind the counter with some +sewing, she did not raise her eyes from her work when Mr Verloc +entered in the aggressive clatter of the bell. She had +recognised his step on the pavement outside.</p> + +<p>She did not raise her eyes, but as Mr Verloc, silent, and with +his hat rammed down upon his forehead, made straight for the +parlour door, she said serenely:</p> + +<p>“What a wretched day. You’ve been perhaps to +see Stevie?”</p> + +<p>“No! I haven’t,” said Mr Verloc +softly, and slammed the glazed parlour door behind him with +unexpected energy.</p> + +<p>For some time Mrs Verloc remained quiescent, with her work +dropped in her lap, before she put it away under the counter and +got up to light the gas. This done, she went into the +parlour on her way to the kitchen. Mr Verloc would want his +tea presently. Confident of the power of her charms, Winnie +did not expect from her husband in the daily intercourse of their +married life a ceremonious amenity of address and courtliness of +manner; vain and antiquated forms at best, probably never very +exactly observed, discarded nowadays even in the highest spheres, +and always foreign to the standards of her class. She did +not look for courtesies from him. But he was a good +husband, and she had a loyal respect for his rights.</p> + +<p>Mrs Verloc would have gone through the parlour and on to her +domestic duties in the kitchen with the perfect serenity of a +woman sure of the power of her charms. But a slight, very +slight, and rapid rattling sound grew upon her hearing. +Bizarre and incomprehensible, it arrested Mrs Verloc’s +attention. Then as its character became plain to the ear +she stopped short, amazed and concerned. Striking a match +on the box she held in her hand, she turned on and lighted, above +the parlour table, one of the two gas-burners, which, being +defective, first whistled as if astonished, and then went on +purring comfortably like a cat.</p> + +<p>Mr Verloc, against his usual practice, had thrown off his +overcoat. It was lying on the sofa. His hat, which he +must also have thrown off, rested overturned under the edge of +the sofa. He had dragged a chair in front of the fireplace, +and his feet planted inside the fender, his head held between his +hands, he was hanging low over the glowing grate. His teeth +rattled with an ungovernable violence, causing his whole enormous +back to tremble at the same rate. Mrs Verloc was +startled.</p> + +<p>“You’ve been getting wet,” she said.</p> + +<p>“Not very,” Mr Verloc managed to falter out, in a +profound shudder. By a great effort he suppressed the +rattling of his teeth.</p> + +<p>“I’ll have you laid up on my hands,” she +said, with genuine uneasiness.</p> + +<p>“I don’t think so,” remarked Mr Verloc, +snuffling huskily.</p> + +<p>He had certainly contrived somehow to catch an abominable cold +between seven in the morning and five in the afternoon. Mrs +Verloc looked at his bowed back.</p> + +<p>“Where have you been to-day?” she asked.</p> + +<p>“Nowhere,” answered Mr Verloc in a low, choked +nasal tone. His attitude suggested aggrieved sulks or a +severe headache. The unsufficiency and uncandidness of his +answer became painfully apparent in the dead silence of the +room. He snuffled apologetically, and added: +“I’ve been to the bank.”</p> + +<p>Mrs Verloc became attentive.</p> + +<p>“You have!” she said dispassionately. +“What for?”</p> + +<p>Mr Verloc mumbled, with his nose over the grate, and with +marked unwillingness.</p> + +<p>“Draw the money out!”</p> + +<p>“What do you mean? All of it?”</p> + +<p>“Yes. All of it.”</p> + +<p>Mrs Verloc spread out with care the scanty table-cloth, got +two knives and two forks out of the table drawer, and suddenly +stopped in her methodical proceedings.</p> + +<p>“What did you do that for?”</p> + +<p>“May want it soon,” snuffled vaguely Mr Verloc, +who was coming to the end of his calculated indiscretions.</p> + +<p>“I don’t know what you mean,” remarked his +wife in a tone perfectly casual, but standing stock still between +the table and the cupboard.</p> + +<p>“You know you can trust me,” Mr Verloc remarked to +the grate, with hoarse feeling.</p> + +<p>Mrs Verloc turned slowly towards the cupboard, saying with +deliberation:</p> + +<p>“Oh yes. I can trust you.”</p> + +<p>And she went on with her methodical proceedings. She +laid two plates, got the bread, the butter, going to and fro +quietly between the table and the cupboard in the peace and +silence of her home. On the point of taking out the jam, +she reflected practically: “He will be feeling hungry, +having been away all day,” and she returned to the cupboard +once more to get the cold beef. She set it under the +purring gas-jet, and with a passing glance at her motionless +husband hugging the fire, she went (down two steps) into the +kitchen. It was only when coming back, carving knife and +fork in hand, that she spoke again.</p> + +<p>“If I hadn’t trusted you I wouldn’t have +married you.”</p> + +<p>Bowed under the overmantel, Mr Verloc, holding his head in +both hands, seemed to have gone to sleep. Winnie made the +tea, and called out in an undertone:</p> + +<p>“Adolf.”</p> + +<p>Mr Verloc got up at once, and staggered a little before he sat +down at the table. His wife examining the sharp edge of the +carving knife, placed it on the dish, and called his attention to +the cold beef. He remained insensible to the suggestion, +with his chin on his breast.</p> + +<p>“You should feed your cold,” Mrs Verloc said +dogmatically.</p> + +<p>He looked up, and shook his head. His eyes were +bloodshot and his face red. His fingers had ruffled his +hair into a dissipated untidiness. Altogether he had a +disreputable aspect, expressive of the discomfort, the irritation +and the gloom following a heavy debauch. But Mr Verloc was +not a debauched man. In his conduct he was +respectable. His appearance might have been the effect of a +feverish cold. He drank three cups of tea, but abstained +from food entirely. He recoiled from it with sombre +aversion when urged by Mrs Verloc, who said at last:</p> + +<p>“Aren’t your feet wet? You had better put on +your slippers. You aren’t going out any more this +evening.”</p> + +<p>Mr Verloc intimated by morose grunts and signs that his feet +were not wet, and that anyhow he did not care. The proposal +as to slippers was disregarded as beneath his notice. But +the question of going out in the evening received an unexpected +development. It was not of going out in the evening that Mr +Verloc was thinking. His thoughts embraced a vaster +scheme. From moody and incomplete phrases it became +apparent that Mr Verloc had been considering the expediency of +emigrating. It was not very clear whether he had in his +mind France or California.</p> + +<p>The utter unexpectedness, improbability, and inconceivableness +of such an event robbed this vague declaration of all its +effect. Mrs Verloc, as placidly as if her husband had been +threatening her with the end of the world, said:</p> + +<p>“The idea!”</p> + +<p>Mr Verloc declared himself sick and tired of everything, and +besides—She interrupted him.</p> + +<p>“You’ve a bad cold.”</p> + +<p>It was indeed obvious that Mr Verloc was not in his usual +state, physically and even mentally. A sombre irresolution +held him silent for a while. Then he murmured a few ominous +generalities on the theme of necessity.</p> + +<p>“Will have to,” repeated Winnie, sitting calmly +back, with folded arms, opposite her husband. “I +should like to know who’s to make you. You +ain’t a slave. No one need be a slave in this +country—and don’t you make yourself one.” +She paused, and with invincible and steady candour. +“The business isn’t so bad,” she went on. +“You’ve a comfortable home.”</p> + +<p>She glanced all round the parlour, from the corner cupboard to +the good fire in the grate. Ensconced cosily behind the +shop of doubtful wares, with the mysteriously dim window, and its +door suspiciously ajar in the obscure and narrow street, it was +in all essentials of domestic propriety and domestic comfort a +respectable home. Her devoted affection missed out of it +her brother Stevie, now enjoying a damp villegiature in the +Kentish lanes under the care of Mr Michaelis. She missed +him poignantly, with all the force of her protecting +passion. This was the boy’s home too—the roof, +the cupboard, the stoked grate. On this thought Mrs Verloc +rose, and walking to the other end of the table, said in the +fulness of her heart:</p> + +<p>“And you are not tired of me.”</p> + +<p>Mr Verloc made no sound. Winnie leaned on his shoulder +from behind, and pressed her lips to his forehead. Thus she +lingered. Not a whisper reached them from the outside +world.</p> + +<p>The sound of footsteps on the pavement died out in the +discreet dimness of the shop. Only the gas-jet above the +table went on purring equably in the brooding silence of the +parlour.</p> + +<p>During the contact of that unexpected and lingering kiss Mr +Verloc, gripping with both hands the edges of his chair, +preserved a hieratic immobility. When the pressure was +removed he let go the chair, rose, and went to stand before the +fireplace. He turned no longer his back to the room. +With his features swollen and an air of being drugged, he +followed his wife’s movements with his eyes.</p> + +<p>Mrs Verloc went about serenely, clearing up the table. +Her tranquil voice commented the idea thrown out in a reasonable +and domestic tone. It wouldn’t stand +examination. She condemned it from every point of +view. But her only real concern was Stevie’s +welfare. He appeared to her thought in that connection as +sufficiently “peculiar” not to be taken rashly +abroad. And that was all. But talking round that +vital point, she approached absolute vehemence in her +delivery. Meanwhile, with brusque movements, she arrayed +herself in an apron for the washing up of cups. And as if +excited by the sound of her uncontradicted voice, she went so far +as to say in a tone almost tart:</p> + +<p>“If you go abroad you’ll have to go without +me.”</p> + +<p>“You know I wouldn’t,” said Mr Verloc +huskily, and the unresonant voice of his private life trembled +with an enigmatical emotion.</p> + +<p>Already Mrs Verloc was regretting her words. They had +sounded more unkind than she meant them to be. They had +also the unwisdom of unnecessary things. In fact, she had +not meant them at all. It was a sort of phrase that is +suggested by the demon of perverse inspiration. But she +knew a way to make it as if it had not been.</p> + +<p>She turned her head over her shoulder and gave that man +planted heavily in front of the fireplace a glance, half arch, +half cruel, out of her large eyes—a glance of which the +Winnie of the Belgravian mansion days would have been incapable, +because of her respectability and her ignorance. But the +man was her husband now, and she was no longer ignorant. +She kept it on him for a whole second, with her grave face +motionless like a mask, while she said playfully:</p> + +<p>“You couldn’t. You would miss me too +much.”</p> + +<p>Mr Verloc started forward.</p> + +<p>“Exactly,” he said in a louder tone, throwing his +arms out and making a step towards her. Something wild and +doubtful in his expression made it appear uncertain whether he +meant to strangle or to embrace his wife. But Mrs +Verloc’s attention was called away from that manifestation +by the clatter of the shop bell.</p> + +<p>“Shop, Adolf. You go.”</p> + +<p>He stopped, his arms came down slowly.</p> + +<p>“You go,” repeated Mrs Verloc. +“I’ve got my apron on.”</p> + +<p>Mr Verloc obeyed woodenly, stony-eyed, and like an automaton +whose face had been painted red. And this resemblance to a +mechanical figure went so far that he had an automaton’s +absurd air of being aware of the machinery inside of him.</p> + +<p>He closed the parlour door, and Mrs Verloc moving briskly, +carried the tray into the kitchen. She washed the cups and +some other things before she stopped in her work to listen. +No sound reached her. The customer was a long time in the +shop. It was a customer, because if he had not been Mr +Verloc would have taken him inside. Undoing the strings of +her apron with a jerk, she threw it on a chair, and walked back +to the parlour slowly.</p> + +<p>At that precise moment Mr Verloc entered from the shop.</p> + +<p>He had gone in red. He came out a strange papery +white. His face, losing its drugged, feverish stupor, had +in that short time acquired a bewildered and harassed +expression. He walked straight to the sofa, and stood +looking down at his overcoat lying there, as though he were +afraid to touch it.</p> + +<p>“What’s the matter?” asked Mrs Verloc in a +subdued voice. Through the door left ajar she could see +that the customer was not gone yet.</p> + +<p>“I find I’ll have to go out this evening,” +said Mr Verloc. He did not attempt to pick up his outer +garment.</p> + +<p>Without a word Winnie made for the shop, and shutting the door +after her, walked in behind the counter. She did not look +overtly at the customer till she had established herself +comfortably on the chair. But by that time she had noted +that he was tall and thin, and wore his moustaches twisted +up. In fact, he gave the sharp points a twist just +then. His long, bony face rose out of a turned-up +collar. He was a little splashed, a little wet. A +dark man, with the ridge of the cheek-bone well defined under the +slightly hollow temple. A complete stranger. Not a +customer either.</p> + +<p>Mrs Verloc looked at him placidly.</p> + +<p>“You came over from the Continent?” she said after +a time.</p> + +<p>The long, thin stranger, without exactly looking at Mrs +Verloc, answered only by a faint and peculiar smile.</p> + +<p>Mrs Verloc’s steady, incurious gaze rested on him.</p> + +<p>“You understand English, don’t you?”</p> + +<p>“Oh yes. I understand English.”</p> + +<p>There was nothing foreign in his accent, except that he seemed +in his slow enunciation to be taking pains with it. And Mrs +Verloc, in her varied experience, had come to the conclusion that +some foreigners could speak better English than the +natives. She said, looking at the door of the parlour +fixedly:</p> + +<p>“You don’t think perhaps of staying in England for +good?”</p> + +<p>The stranger gave her again a silent smile. He had a +kindly mouth and probing eyes. And he shook his head a +little sadly, it seemed.</p> + +<p>“My husband will see you through all right. +Meantime for a few days you couldn’t do better than take +lodgings with Mr Giugliani. Continental Hotel it’s +called. Private. It’s quiet. My husband +will take you there.”</p> + +<p>“A good idea,” said the thin, dark man, whose +glance had hardened suddenly.</p> + +<p>“You knew Mr Verloc before—didn’t you? +Perhaps in France?”</p> + +<p>“I have heard of him,” admitted the visitor in his +slow, painstaking tone, which yet had a certain curtness of +intention.</p> + +<p>There was a pause. Then he spoke again, in a far less +elaborate manner.</p> + +<p>“Your husband has not gone out to wait for me in the +street by chance?”</p> + +<p>“In the street!” repeated Mrs Verloc, +surprised. “He couldn’t. There’s no +other door to the house.”</p> + +<p>For a moment she sat impassive, then left her seat to go and +peep through the glazed door. Suddenly she opened it, and +disappeared into the parlour.</p> + +<p>Mr Verloc had done no more than put on his overcoat. But +why he should remain afterwards leaning over the table propped up +on his two arms as though he were feeling giddy or sick, she +could not understand. “Adolf,” she called out +half aloud; and when he had raised himself:</p> + +<p>“Do you know that man?” she asked rapidly.</p> + +<p>“I’ve heard of him,” whispered uneasily Mr +Verloc, darting a wild glance at the door.</p> + +<p>Mrs Verloc’s fine, incurious eyes lighted up with a +flash of abhorrence.</p> + +<p>“One of Karl Yundt’s friends—beastly old +man.”</p> + +<p>“No! No!” protested Mr Verloc, busy fishing +for his hat. But when he got it from under the sofa he held +it as if he did not know the use of a hat.</p> + +<p>“Well—he’s waiting for you,” said Mrs +Verloc at last. “I say, Adolf, he ain’t one of +them Embassy people you have been bothered with of +late?”</p> + +<p>“Bothered with Embassy people,” repeated Mr +Verloc, with a heavy start of surprise and fear. +“Who’s been talking to you of the Embassy +people?”</p> + +<p>“Yourself.”</p> + +<p>“I! I! Talked of the Embassy to +you!”</p> + +<p>Mr Verloc seemed scared and bewildered beyond measure. +His wife explained:</p> + +<p>“You’ve been talking a little in your sleep of +late, Adolf.”</p> + +<p>“What—what did I say? What do you +know?”</p> + +<p>“Nothing much. It seemed mostly nonsense. +Enough to let me guess that something worried you.”</p> + +<p>Mr Verloc rammed his hat on his head. A crimson flood of +anger ran over his face.</p> + +<p>“Nonsense—eh? The Embassy people! I +would cut their hearts out one after another. But let them +look out. I’ve got a tongue in my head.”</p> + +<p>He fumed, pacing up and down between the table and the sofa, +his open overcoat catching against the angles. The red +flood of anger ebbed out, and left his face all white, with +quivering nostrils. Mrs Verloc, for the purposes of +practical existence, put down these appearances to the cold.</p> + +<p>“Well,” she said, “get rid of the man, +whoever he is, as soon as you can, and come back home to +me. You want looking after for a day or two.”</p> + +<p>Mr Verloc calmed down, and, with resolution imprinted on his +pale face, had already opened the door, when his wife called him +back in a whisper:</p> + +<p>“Adolf! Adolf!” He came back +startled. “What about that money you drew out?” +she asked. “You’ve got it in your pocket? +Hadn’t you better—”</p> + +<p>Mr Verloc gazed stupidly into the palm of his wife’s +extended hand for some time before he slapped his brow.</p> + +<p>“Money! Yes! Yes! I didn’t know +what you meant.”</p> + +<p>He drew out of his breast pocket a new pigskin +pocket-book. Mrs Verloc received it without another word, +and stood still till the bell, clattering after Mr Verloc and Mr +Verloc’s visitor, had quieted down. Only then she +peeped in at the amount, drawing the notes out for the +purpose. After this inspection she looked round +thoughtfully, with an air of mistrust in the silence and solitude +of the house. This abode of her married life appeared to +her as lonely and unsafe as though it had been situated in the +midst of a forest. No receptacle she could think of amongst +the solid, heavy furniture seemed other but flimsy and +particularly tempting to her conception of a house-breaker. +It was an ideal conception, endowed with sublime faculties and a +miraculous insight. The till was not to be thought +of. It was the first spot a thief would make for. Mrs +Verloc unfastening hastily a couple of hooks, slipped the +pocket-book under the bodice of her dress. Having thus +disposed of her husband’s capital, she was rather glad to +hear the clatter of the door bell, announcing an arrival. +Assuming the fixed, unabashed stare and the stony expression +reserved for the casual customer, she walked in behind the +counter.</p> + +<p>A man standing in the middle of the shop was inspecting it +with a swift, cool, all-round glance. His eyes ran over the +walls, took in the ceiling, noted the floor—all in a +moment. The points of a long fair moustache fell below the +line of the jaw. He smiled the smile of an old if distant +acquaintance, and Mrs Verloc remembered having seen him +before. Not a customer. She softened her +“customer stare” to mere indifference, and faced him +across the counter.</p> + +<p>He approached, on his side, confidentially, but not too +markedly so.</p> + +<p>“Husband at home, Mrs Verloc?” he asked in an +easy, full tone.</p> + +<p>“No. He’s gone out.”</p> + +<p>“I am sorry for that. I’ve called to get +from him a little private information.”</p> + +<p>This was the exact truth. Chief Inspector Heat had been +all the way home, and had even gone so far as to think of getting +into his slippers, since practically he was, he told himself, +chucked out of that case. He indulged in some scornful and +in a few angry thoughts, and found the occupation so +unsatisfactory that he resolved to seek relief out of +doors. Nothing prevented him paying a friendly call to Mr +Verloc, casually as it were. It was in the character of a +private citizen that walking out privately he made use of his +customary conveyances. Their general direction was towards +Mr Verloc’s home. Chief Inspector Heat respected his +own private character so consistently that he took especial pains +to avoid all the police constables on point and patrol duty in +the vicinity of Brett Street. This precaution was much more +necessary for a man of his standing than for an obscure Assistant +Commissioner. Private Citizen Heat entered the street, +manoeuvring in a way which in a member of the criminal classes +would have been stigmatised as slinking. The piece of cloth +picked up in Greenwich was in his pocket. Not that he had +the slightest intention of producing it in his private +capacity. On the contrary, he wanted to know just what Mr +Verloc would be disposed to say voluntarily. He hoped Mr +Verloc’s talk would be of a nature to incriminate +Michaelis. It was a conscientiously professional hope in +the main, but not without its moral value. For Chief +Inspector Heat was a servant of justice. Finding Mr Verloc +from home, he felt disappointed.</p> + +<p>“I would wait for him a little if I were sure he +wouldn’t be long,” he said.</p> + +<p>Mrs Verloc volunteered no assurance of any kind.</p> + +<p>“The information I need is quite private,” he +repeated. “You understand what I mean? I wonder +if you could give me a notion where he’s gone +to?”</p> + +<p>Mrs Verloc shook her head.</p> + +<p>“Can’t say.”</p> + +<p>She turned away to range some boxes on the shelves behind the +counter. Chief Inspector Heat looked at her thoughtfully +for a time.</p> + +<p>“I suppose you know who I am?” he said.</p> + +<p>Mrs Verloc glanced over her shoulder. Chief Inspector +Heat was amazed at her coolness.</p> + +<p>“Come! You know I am in the police,” he said +sharply.</p> + +<p>“I don’t trouble my head much about it,” Mrs +Verloc remarked, returning to the ranging of her boxes.</p> + +<p>“My name is Heat. Chief Inspector Heat of the +Special Crimes section.”</p> + +<p>Mrs Verloc adjusted nicely in its place a small cardboard box, +and turning round, faced him again, heavy-eyed, with idle hands +hanging down. A silence reigned for a time.</p> + +<p>“So your husband went out a quarter of an hour +ago! And he didn’t say when he would be +back?”</p> + +<p>“He didn’t go out alone,” Mrs Verloc let +fall negligently.</p> + +<p>“A friend?”</p> + +<p>Mrs Verloc touched the back of her hair. It was in +perfect order.</p> + +<p>“A stranger who called.”</p> + +<p>“I see. What sort of man was that stranger? +Would you mind telling me?”</p> + +<p>Mrs Verloc did not mind. And when Chief Inspector Heat +heard of a man dark, thin, with a long face and turned up +moustaches, he gave signs of perturbation, and exclaimed:</p> + +<p>“Dash me if I didn’t think so! He +hasn’t lost any time.”</p> + +<p>He was intensely disgusted in the secrecy of his heart at the +unofficial conduct of his immediate chief. But he was not +quixotic. He lost all desire to await Mr Verloc’s +return. What they had gone out for he did not know, but he +imagined it possible that they would return together. The +case is not followed properly, it’s being tampered with, he +thought bitterly.</p> + +<p>“I am afraid I haven’t time to wait for your +husband,” he said.</p> + +<p>Mrs Verloc received this declaration listlessly. Her +detachment had impressed Chief Inspector Heat all along. At +this precise moment it whetted his curiosity. Chief +Inspector Heat hung in the wind, swayed by his passions like the +most private of citizens.</p> + +<p>“I think,” he said, looking at her steadily, +“that you could give me a pretty good notion of +what’s going on if you liked.”</p> + +<p>Forcing her fine, inert eyes to return his gaze, Mrs Verloc +murmured:</p> + +<p>“Going on! What <i>is</i> going on?”</p> + +<p>“Why, the affair I came to talk about a little with your +husband.”</p> + +<p>That day Mrs Verloc had glanced at a morning paper as +usual. But she had not stirred out of doors. The +newsboys never invaded Brett Street. It was not a street +for their business. And the echo of their cries drifting +along the populous thoroughfares, expired between the dirty brick +walls without reaching the threshold of the shop. Her +husband had not brought an evening paper home. At any rate +she had not seen it. Mrs Verloc knew nothing whatever of +any affair. And she said so, with a genuine note of wonder +in her quiet voice.</p> + +<p>Chief Inspector Heat did not believe for a moment in so much +ignorance. Curtly, without amiability, he stated the bare +fact.</p> + +<p>Mrs Verloc turned away her eyes.</p> + +<p>“I call it silly,” she pronounced slowly. +She paused. “We ain’t downtrodden slaves +here.”</p> + +<p>The Chief Inspector waited watchfully. Nothing more +came.</p> + +<p>“And your husband didn’t mention anything to you +when he came home?”</p> + +<p>Mrs Verloc simply turned her face from right to left in sign +of negation. A languid, baffling silence reigned in the +shop. Chief Inspector Heat felt provoked beyond +endurance.</p> + +<p>“There was another small matter,” he began in a +detached tone, “which I wanted to speak to your husband +about. There came into our hands a—a—what we +believe is—a stolen overcoat.”</p> + +<p>Mrs Verloc, with her mind specially aware of thieves that +evening, touched lightly the bosom of her dress.</p> + +<p>“We have lost no overcoat,” she said calmly.</p> + +<p>“That’s funny,” continued Private Citizen +Heat. “I see you keep a lot of marking ink +here—”</p> + +<p>He took up a small bottle, and looked at it against the +gas-jet in the middle of the shop.</p> + +<p>“Purple—isn’t it?” he remarked, +setting it down again. “As I said, it’s +strange. Because the overcoat has got a label sewn on the +inside with your address written in marking ink.”</p> + +<p>Mrs Verloc leaned over the counter with a low exclamation.</p> + +<p>“That’s my brother’s, then.”</p> + +<p>“Where’s your brother? Can I see him?” +asked the Chief Inspector briskly. Mrs Verloc leaned a +little more over the counter.</p> + +<p>“No. He isn’t here. I wrote that label +myself.”</p> + +<p>“Where’s your brother now?”</p> + +<p>“He’s been away living with—a +friend—in the country.”</p> + +<p>“The overcoat comes from the country. And +what’s the name of the friend?”</p> + +<p>“Michaelis,” confessed Mrs Verloc in an awed +whisper.</p> + +<p>The Chief Inspector let out a whistle. His eyes +snapped.</p> + +<p>“Just so. Capital. And your brother now, +what’s he like—a sturdy, darkish +chap—eh?”</p> + +<p>“Oh no,” exclaimed Mrs Verloc fervently. +“That must be the thief. Stevie’s slight and +fair.”</p> + +<p>“Good,” said the Chief Inspector in an approving +tone. And while Mrs Verloc, wavering between alarm and +wonder, stared at him, he sought for information. Why have +the address sewn like this inside the coat? And he heard +that the mangled remains he had inspected that morning with +extreme repugnance were those of a youth, nervous, absent-minded, +peculiar, and also that the woman who was speaking to him had had +the charge of that boy since he was a baby.</p> + +<p>“Easily excitable?” he suggested.</p> + +<p>“Oh yes. He is. But how did he come to lose +his coat—”</p> + +<p>Chief Inspector Heat suddenly pulled out a pink newspaper he +had bought less than half-an-hour ago. He was interested in +horses. Forced by his calling into an attitude of doubt and +suspicion towards his fellow-citizens, Chief Inspector Heat +relieved the instinct of credulity implanted in the human breast +by putting unbounded faith in the sporting prophets of that +particular evening publication. Dropping the extra special +on to the counter, he plunged his hand again into his pocket, and +pulling out the piece of cloth fate had presented him with out of +a heap of things that seemed to have been collected in shambles +and rag shops, he offered it to Mrs Verloc for inspection.</p> + +<p>“I suppose you recognise this?”</p> + +<p>She took it mechanically in both her hands. Her eyes +seemed to grow bigger as she looked.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” she whispered, then raised her head, and +staggered backward a little.</p> + +<p>“Whatever for is it torn out like this?”</p> + +<p>The Chief Inspector snatched across the counter the cloth out +of her hands, and she sat heavily on the chair. He thought: +identification’s perfect. And in that moment he had a +glimpse into the whole amazing truth. Verloc was the +“other man.”</p> + +<p>“Mrs Verloc,” he said, “it strikes me that +you know more of this bomb affair than even you yourself are +aware of.”</p> + +<p>Mrs Verloc sat still, amazed, lost in boundless +astonishment. What was the connection? And she became +so rigid all over that she was not able to turn her head at the +clatter of the bell, which caused the private investigator Heat +to spin round on his heel. Mr Verloc had shut the door, and +for a moment the two men looked at each other.</p> + +<p>Mr Verloc, without looking at his wife, walked up to the Chief +Inspector, who was relieved to see him return alone.</p> + +<p>“You here!” muttered Mr Verloc heavily. +“Who are you after?”</p> + +<p>“No one,” said Chief Inspector Heat in a low +tone. “Look here, I would like a word or two with +you.”</p> + +<p>Mr Verloc, still pale, had brought an air of resolution with +him. Still he didn’t look at his wife. He +said:</p> + +<p>“Come in here, then.” And he led the way +into the parlour.</p> + +<p>The door was hardly shut when Mrs Verloc, jumping up from the +chair, ran to it as if to fling it open, but instead of doing so +fell on her knees, with her ear to the keyhole. The two men +must have stopped directly they were through, because she heard +plainly the Chief Inspector’s voice, though she could not +see his finger pressed against her husband’s breast +emphatically.</p> + +<p>“You are the other man, Verloc. Two men were seen +entering the park.”</p> + +<p>And the voice of Mr Verloc said:</p> + +<p>“Well, take me now. What’s to prevent +you? You have the right.”</p> + +<p>“Oh no! I know too well who you have been giving +yourself away to. He’ll have to manage this little +affair all by himself. But don’t you make a mistake, +it’s I who found you out.”</p> + +<p>Then she heard only muttering. Inspector Heat must have +been showing to Mr Verloc the piece of Stevie’s overcoat, +because Stevie’s sister, guardian, and protector heard her +husband a little louder.</p> + +<p>“I never noticed that she had hit upon that +dodge.”</p> + +<p>Again for a time Mrs Verloc heard nothing but murmurs, whose +mysteriousness was less nightmarish to her brain than the +horrible suggestions of shaped words. Then Chief Inspector +Heat, on the other side of the door, raised his voice.</p> + +<p>“You must have been mad.”</p> + +<p>And Mr Verloc’s voice answered, with a sort of gloomy +fury:</p> + +<p>“I have been mad for a month or more, but I am not mad +now. It’s all over. It shall all come out of my +head, and hang the consequences.”</p> + +<p>There was a silence, and then Private Citizen Heat +murmured:</p> + +<p>“What’s coming out?”</p> + +<p>“Everything,” exclaimed the voice of Mr Verloc, +and then sank very low.</p> + +<p>After a while it rose again.</p> + +<p>“You have known me for several years now, and +you’ve found me useful, too. You know I was a +straight man. Yes, straight.”</p> + +<p>This appeal to old acquaintance must have been extremely +distasteful to the Chief Inspector.</p> + +<p>His voice took on a warning note.</p> + +<p>“Don’t you trust so much to what you have been +promised. If I were you I would clear out. I +don’t think we will run after you.”</p> + +<p>Mr Verloc was heard to laugh a little.</p> + +<p>“Oh yes; you hope the others will get rid of me for +you—don’t you? No, no; you don’t shake me +off now. I have been a straight man to those people too +long, and now everything must come out.”</p> + +<p>“Let it come out, then,” the indifferent voice of +Chief Inspector Heat assented. “But tell me now how +did you get away.”</p> + +<p>“I was making for Chesterfield Walk,” Mrs Verloc +heard her husband’s voice, “when I heard the +bang. I started running then. Fog. I saw no one +till I was past the end of George Street. Don’t think +I met anyone till then.”</p> + +<p>“So easy as that!” marvelled the voice of Chief +Inspector Heat. “The bang startled you, +eh?”</p> + +<p>“Yes; it came too soon,” confessed the gloomy, +husky voice of Mr Verloc.</p> + +<p>Mrs Verloc pressed her ear to the keyhole; her lips were blue, +her hands cold as ice, and her pale face, in which the two eyes +seemed like two black holes, felt to her as if it were enveloped +in flames.</p> + +<p>On the other side of the door the voices sank very low. +She caught words now and then, sometimes in her husband’s +voice, sometimes in the smooth tones of the Chief +Inspector. She heard this last say:</p> + +<p>“We believe he stumbled against the root of a +tree?”</p> + +<p>There was a husky, voluble murmur, which lasted for some time, +and then the Chief Inspector, as if answering some inquiry, spoke +emphatically.</p> + +<p>“Of course. Blown to small bits: limbs, gravel, +clothing, bones, splinters—all mixed up together. I +tell you they had to fetch a shovel to gather him up +with.”</p> + +<p>Mrs Verloc sprang up suddenly from her crouching position, and +stopping her ears, reeled to and fro between the counter and the +shelves on the wall towards the chair. Her crazed eyes +noted the sporting sheet left by the Chief Inspector, and as she +knocked herself against the counter she snatched it up, fell into +the chair, tore the optimistic, rosy sheet right across in trying +to open it, then flung it on the floor. On the other side +of the door, Chief Inspector Heat was saying to Mr Verloc, the +secret agent:</p> + +<p>“So your defence will be practically a full +confession?”</p> + +<p>“It will. I am going to tell the whole +story.”</p> + +<p>“You won’t be believed as much as you fancy you +will.”</p> + +<p>And the Chief Inspector remained thoughtful. The turn +this affair was taking meant the disclosure of many +things—the laying waste of fields of knowledge, which, +cultivated by a capable man, had a distinct value for the +individual and for the society. It was sorry, sorry +meddling. It would leave Michaelis unscathed; it would drag +to light the Professor’s home industry; disorganise the +whole system of supervision; make no end of a row in the papers, +which, from that point of view, appeared to him by a sudden +illumination as invariably written by fools for the reading of +imbeciles. Mentally he agreed with the words Mr Verloc let +fall at last in answer to his last remark.</p> + +<p>“Perhaps not. But it will upset many things. +I have been a straight man, and I shall keep straight in +this—”</p> + +<p>“If they let you,” said the Chief Inspector +cynically. “You will be preached to, no doubt, before +they put you into the dock. And in the end you may yet get +let in for a sentence that will surprise you. I +wouldn’t trust too much the gentleman who’s been +talking to you.”</p> + +<p>Mr Verloc listened, frowning.</p> + +<p>“My advice to you is to clear out while you may. I +have no instructions. There are some of them,” +continued Chief Inspector Heat, laying a peculiar stress on the +word “them,” “who think you are already out of +the world.”</p> + +<p>“Indeed!” Mr Verloc was moved to say. Though +since his return from Greenwich he had spent most of his time +sitting in the tap-room of an obscure little public-house, he +could hardly have hoped for such favourable news.</p> + +<p>“That’s the impression about you.” The +Chief Inspector nodded at him. “Vanish. Clear +out.”</p> + +<p>“Where to?” snarled Mr Verloc. He raised his +head, and gazing at the closed door of the parlour, muttered +feelingly: “I only wish you would take me away +to-night. I would go quietly.”</p> + +<p>“I daresay,” assented sardonically the Chief +Inspector, following the direction of his glance.</p> + +<p>The brow of Mr Verloc broke into slight moisture. He +lowered his husky voice confidentially before the unmoved Chief +Inspector.</p> + +<p>“The lad was half-witted, irresponsible. Any court +would have seen that at once. Only fit for the +asylum. And that was the worst that would’ve happened +to him if—”</p> + +<p>The Chief Inspector, his hand on the door handle, whispered +into Mr Verloc’s face.</p> + +<p>“He may’ve been half-witted, but you must have +been crazy. What drove you off your head like +this?”</p> + +<p>Mr Verloc, thinking of Mr Vladimir, did not hesitate in the +choice of words.</p> + +<p>“A Hyperborean swine,” he hissed forcibly. +“A what you might call a—a gentleman.”</p> + +<p>The Chief Inspector, steady-eyed, nodded briefly his +comprehension, and opened the door. Mrs Verloc, behind the +counter, might have heard but did not see his departure, pursued +by the aggressive clatter of the bell. She sat at her post +of duty behind the counter. She sat rigidly erect in the +chair with two dirty pink pieces of paper lying spread out at her +feet. The palms of her hands were pressed convulsively to +her face, with the tips of the fingers contracted against the +forehead, as though the skin had been a mask which she was ready +to tear off violently. The perfect immobility of her pose +expressed the agitation of rage and despair, all the potential +violence of tragic passions, better than any shallow display of +shrieks, with the beating of a distracted head against the walls, +could have done. Chief Inspector Heat, crossing the shop at +his busy, swinging pace, gave her only a cursory glance. +And when the cracked bell ceased to tremble on its curved ribbon +of steel nothing stirred near Mrs Verloc, as if her attitude had +the locking power of a spell. Even the butterfly-shaped gas +flames posed on the ends of the suspended T-bracket burned +without a quiver. In that shop of shady wares fitted with +deal shelves painted a dull brown, which seemed to devour the +sheen of the light, the gold circlet of the wedding ring on Mrs +Verloc’s left hand glittered exceedingly with the +untarnished glory of a piece from some splendid treasure of +jewels, dropped in a dust-bin.</p> + +<h2>CHAPTER X</h2> + +<p>The Assistant Commissioner, driven rapidly in a hansom from +the neighbourhood of Soho in the direction of Westminster, got +out at the very centre of the Empire on which the sun never +sets. Some stalwart constables, who did not seem +particularly impressed by the duty of watching the august spot, +saluted him. Penetrating through a portal by no means lofty +into the precincts of the House which is <i>the</i> House, <i>par +excellence</i> in the minds of many millions of men, he was met +at last by the volatile and revolutionary Toodles.</p> + +<p>That neat and nice young man concealed his astonishment at the +early appearance of the Assistant Commissioner, whom he had been +told to look out for some time about midnight. His turning +up so early he concluded to be the sign that things, whatever +they were, had gone wrong. With an extremely ready +sympathy, which in nice youngsters goes often with a joyous +temperament, he felt sorry for the great Presence he called +“The Chief,” and also for the Assistant Commissioner, +whose face appeared to him more ominously wooden than ever +before, and quite wonderfully long. “What a queer, +foreign-looking chap he is,” he thought to himself, smiling +from a distance with friendly buoyancy. And directly they +came together he began to talk with the kind intention of burying +the awkwardness of failure under a heap of words. It looked +as if the great assault threatened for that night were going to +fizzle out. An inferior henchman of “that brute +Cheeseman” was up boring mercilessly a very thin House with +some shamelessly cooked statistics. He, Toodles, hoped he +would bore them into a count out every minute. But then he +might be only marking time to let that guzzling Cheeseman dine at +his leisure. Anyway, the Chief could not be persuaded to go +home.</p> + +<p>“He will see you at once, I think. He’s +sitting all alone in his room thinking of all the fishes of the +sea,” concluded Toodles airily. “Come +along.”</p> + +<p>Notwithstanding the kindness of his disposition, the young +private secretary (unpaid) was accessible to the common failings +of humanity. He did not wish to harrow the feelings of the +Assistant Commissioner, who looked to him uncommonly like a man +who has made a mess of his job. But his curiosity was too +strong to be restrained by mere compassion. He could not +help, as they went along, to throw over his shoulder lightly:</p> + +<p>“And your sprat?”</p> + +<p>“Got him,” answered the Assistant Commissioner +with a concision which did not mean to be repellent in the +least.</p> + +<p>“Good. You’ve no idea how these great men +dislike to be disappointed in small things.”</p> + +<p>After this profound observation the experienced Toodles seemed +to reflect. At any rate he said nothing for quite two +seconds. Then:</p> + +<p>“I’m glad. But—I say—is it +really such a very small thing as you make it out?”</p> + +<p>“Do you know what may be done with a sprat?” the +Assistant Commissioner asked in his turn.</p> + +<p>“He’s sometimes put into a sardine box,” +chuckled Toodles, whose erudition on the subject of the fishing +industry was fresh and, in comparison with his ignorance of all +other industrial matters, immense. “There are sardine +canneries on the Spanish coast which—”</p> + +<p>The Assistant Commissioner interrupted the apprentice +statesman.</p> + +<p>“Yes. Yes. But a sprat is also thrown away +sometimes in order to catch a whale.”</p> + +<p>“A whale. Phew!” exclaimed Toodles, with +bated breath. “You’re after a whale, +then?”</p> + +<p>“Not exactly. What I am after is more like a +dog-fish. You don’t know perhaps what a dog-fish is +like.”</p> + +<p>“Yes; I do. We’re buried in special books up +to our necks—whole shelves full of them—with plates. +. . . It’s a noxious, rascally-looking, altogether +detestable beast, with a sort of smooth face and +moustaches.”</p> + +<p>“Described to a T,” commended the Assistant +Commissioner. “Only mine is clean-shaven +altogether. You’ve seen him. It’s a witty +fish.”</p> + +<p>“I have seen him!” said Toodles +incredulously. “I can’t conceive where I could +have seen him.”</p> + +<p>“At the Explorers, I should say,” dropped the +Assistant Commissioner calmly. At the name of that +extremely exclusive club Toodles looked scared, and stopped +short.</p> + +<p>“Nonsense,” he protested, but in an awe-struck +tone. “What do you mean? A member?”</p> + +<p>“Honorary,” muttered the Assistant Commissioner +through his teeth.</p> + +<p>“Heavens!”</p> + +<p>Toodles looked so thunderstruck that the Assistant +Commissioner smiled faintly.</p> + +<p>“That’s between ourselves strictly,” he +said.</p> + +<p>“That’s the beastliest thing I’ve ever heard +in my life,” declared Toodles feebly, as if astonishment +had robbed him of all his buoyant strength in a second.</p> + +<p>The Assistant Commissioner gave him an unsmiling glance. +Till they came to the door of the great man’s room, Toodles +preserved a scandalised and solemn silence, as though he were +offended with the Assistant Commissioner for exposing such an +unsavoury and disturbing fact. It revolutionised his idea +of the Explorers’ Club’s extreme selectness, of its +social purity. Toodles was revolutionary only in politics; +his social beliefs and personal feelings he wished to preserve +unchanged through all the years allotted to him on this earth +which, upon the whole, he believed to be a nice place to live +on.</p> + +<p>He stood aside.</p> + +<p>“Go in without knocking,” he said.</p> + +<p>Shades of green silk fitted low over all the lights imparted +to the room something of a forest’s deep gloom. The +haughty eyes were physically the great man’s weak +point. This point was wrapped up in secrecy. When an +opportunity offered, he rested them conscientiously.</p> + +<p>The Assistant Commissioner entering saw at first only a big +pale hand supporting a big head, and concealing the upper part of +a big pale face. An open despatch-box stood on the +writing-table near a few oblong sheets of paper and a scattered +handful of quill pens. There was absolutely nothing else on +the large flat surface except a little bronze statuette draped in +a toga, mysteriously watchful in its shadowy immobility. +The Assistant Commissioner, invited to take a chair, sat +down. In the dim light, the salient points of his +personality, the long face, the black hair, his lankness, made +him look more foreign than ever.</p> + +<p>The great man manifested no surprise, no eagerness, no +sentiment whatever. The attitude in which he rested his +menaced eyes was profoundly meditative. He did not alter it +the least bit. But his tone was not dreamy.</p> + +<p>“Well! What is it that you’ve found out +already? You came upon something unexpected on the first +step.”</p> + +<p>“Not exactly unexpected, Sir Ethelred. What I +mainly came upon was a psychological state.”</p> + +<p>The Great Presence made a slight movement. “You +must be lucid, please.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, Sir Ethelred. You know no doubt that most +criminals at some time or other feel an irresistible need of +confessing—of making a clean breast of it to +somebody—to anybody. And they do it often to the +police. In that Verloc whom Heat wished so much to screen +I’ve found a man in that particular psychological +state. The man, figuratively speaking, flung himself on my +breast. It was enough on my part to whisper to him who I +was and to add ‘I know that you are at the bottom of this +affair.’ It must have seemed miraculous to him that +we should know already, but he took it all in the stride. +The wonderfulness of it never checked him for a moment. +There remained for me only to put to him the two questions: Who +put you up to it? and Who was the man who did it? He +answered the first with remarkable emphasis. As to the +second question, I gather that the fellow with the bomb was his +brother-in-law—quite a lad—a weak-minded creature. . +. . It is rather a curious affair—too long perhaps to state +fully just now.”</p> + +<p>“What then have you learned?” asked the great +man.</p> + +<p>“First, I’ve learned that the ex-convict Michaelis +had nothing to do with it, though indeed the lad had been living +with him temporarily in the country up to eight o’clock +this morning. It is more than likely that Michaelis knows +nothing of it to this moment.”</p> + +<p>“You are positive as to that?” asked the great +man.</p> + +<p>“Quite certain, Sir Ethelred. This fellow Verloc +went there this morning, and took away the lad on the pretence of +going out for a walk in the lanes. As it was not the first +time that he did this, Michaelis could not have the slightest +suspicion of anything unusual. For the rest, Sir Ethelred, +the indignation of this man Verloc had left nothing in +doubt—nothing whatever. He had been driven out of his +mind almost by an extraordinary performance, which for you or me +it would be difficult to take as seriously meant, but which +produced a great impression obviously on him.”</p> + +<p>The Assistant Commissioner then imparted briefly to the great +man, who sat still, resting his eyes under the screen of his +hand, Mr Verloc’s appreciation of Mr Vladimir’s +proceedings and character. The Assistant Commissioner did +not seem to refuse it a certain amount of competency. But +the great personage remarked:</p> + +<p>“All this seems very fantastic.”</p> + +<p>“Doesn’t it? One would think a ferocious +joke. But our man took it seriously, it appears. He +felt himself threatened. In the time, you know, he was in +direct communication with old Stott-Wartenheim himself, and had +come to regard his services as indispensable. It was an +extremely rude awakening. I imagine that he lost his +head. He became angry and frightened. Upon my word, +my impression is that he thought these Embassy people quite +capable not only to throw him out but, to give him away too in +some manner or other—”</p> + +<p>“How long were you with him,” interrupted the +Presence from behind his big hand.</p> + +<p>“Some forty minutes, Sir Ethelred, in a house of bad +repute called Continental Hotel, closeted in a room which +by-the-by I took for the night. I found him under the +influence of that reaction which follows the effort of +crime. The man cannot be defined as a hardened +criminal. It is obvious that he did not plan the death of +that wretched lad—his brother-in-law. That was a +shock to him—I could see that. Perhaps he is a man of +strong sensibilities. Perhaps he was even fond of the +lad—who knows? He might have hoped that the fellow +would get clear away; in which case it would have been almost +impossible to bring this thing home to anyone. At any rate +he risked consciously nothing more but arrest for him.”</p> + +<p>The Assistant Commissioner paused in his speculations to +reflect for a moment.</p> + +<p>“Though how, in that last case, he could hope to have +his own share in the business concealed is more than I can +tell,” he continued, in his ignorance of poor +Stevie’s devotion to Mr Verloc (who was <i>good</i>), and +of his truly peculiar dumbness, which in the old affair of +fireworks on the stairs had for many years resisted entreaties, +coaxing, anger, and other means of investigation used by his +beloved sister. For Stevie was loyal. . . . +“No, I can’t imagine. It’s possible that +he never thought of that at all. It sounds an extravagant +way of putting it, Sir Ethelred, but his state of dismay +suggested to me an impulsive man who, after committing suicide +with the notion that it would end all his troubles, had +discovered that it did nothing of the kind.”</p> + +<p>The Assistant Commissioner gave this definition in an +apologetic voice. But in truth there is a sort of lucidity +proper to extravagant language, and the great man was not +offended. A slight jerky movement of the big body half lost +in the gloom of the green silk shades, of the big head leaning on +the big hand, accompanied an intermittent stifled but powerful +sound. The great man had laughed.</p> + +<p>“What have you done with him?”</p> + +<p>The Assistant Commissioner answered very readily:</p> + +<p>“As he seemed very anxious to get back to his wife in +the shop I let him go, Sir Ethelred.”</p> + +<p>“You did? But the fellow will +disappear.”</p> + +<p>“Pardon me. I don’t think so. Where +could he go to? Moreover, you must remember that he has got +to think of the danger from his comrades too. He’s +there at his post. How could he explain leaving it? +But even if there were no obstacles to his freedom of action he +would do nothing. At present he hasn’t enough moral +energy to take a resolution of any sort. Permit me also to +point out that if I had detained him we would have been committed +to a course of action on which I wished to know your precise +intentions first.”</p> + +<p>The great personage rose heavily, an imposing shadowy form in +the greenish gloom of the room.</p> + +<p>“I’ll see the Attorney-General to-night, and will +send for you to-morrow morning. Is there anything more +you’d wish to tell me now?”</p> + +<p>The Assistant Commissioner had stood up also, slender and +flexible.</p> + +<p>“I think not, Sir Ethelred, unless I were to enter into +details which—”</p> + +<p>“No. No details, please.”</p> + +<p>The great shadowy form seemed to shrink away as if in physical +dread of details; then came forward, expanded, enormous, and +weighty, offering a large hand. “And you say that +this man has got a wife?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, Sir Ethelred,” said the Assistant +Commissioner, pressing deferentially the extended hand. +“A genuine wife and a genuinely, respectably, marital +relation. He told me that after his interview at the +Embassy he would have thrown everything up, would have tried to +sell his shop, and leave the country, only he felt certain that +his wife would not even hear of going abroad. Nothing could +be more characteristic of the respectable bond than that,” +went on, with a touch of grimness, the Assistant Commissioner, +whose own wife too had refused to hear of going abroad. +“Yes, a genuine wife. And the victim was a genuine +brother-in-law. From a certain point of view we are here in +the presence of a domestic drama.”</p> + +<p>The Assistant Commissioner laughed a little; but the great +man’s thoughts seemed to have wandered far away, perhaps to +the questions of his country’s domestic policy, the +battle-ground of his crusading valour against the paynim +Cheeseman. The Assistant Commissioner withdrew quietly, +unnoticed, as if already forgotten.</p> + +<p>He had his own crusading instincts. This affair, which, +in one way or another, disgusted Chief Inspector Heat, seemed to +him a providentially given starting-point for a crusade. He +had it much at heart to begin. He walked slowly home, +meditating that enterprise on the way, and thinking over Mr +Verloc’s psychology in a composite mood of repugnance and +satisfaction. He walked all the way home. Finding the +drawing-room dark, he went upstairs, and spent some time between +the bedroom and the dressing-room, changing his clothes, going to +and fro with the air of a thoughtful somnambulist. But he +shook it off before going out again to join his wife at the house +of the great lady patroness of Michaelis.</p> + +<p>He knew he would be welcomed there. On entering the +smaller of the two drawing-rooms he saw his wife in a small group +near the piano. A youngish composer in pass of becoming +famous was discoursing from a music stool to two thick men whose +backs looked old, and three slender women whose backs looked +young. Behind the screen the great lady had only two +persons with her: a man and a woman, who sat side by side on +arm-chairs at the foot of her couch. She extended her hand +to the Assistant Commissioner.</p> + +<p>“I never hoped to see you here to-night. Annie +told me—”</p> + +<p>“Yes. I had no idea myself that my work would be +over so soon.”</p> + +<p>The Assistant Commissioner added in a low tone: “I +am glad to tell you that Michaelis is altogether clear of +this—”</p> + +<p>The patroness of the ex-convict received this assurance +indignantly.</p> + +<p>“Why? Were your people stupid enough to connect +him with—”</p> + +<p>“Not stupid,” interrupted the Assistant +Commissioner, contradicting deferentially. “Clever +enough—quite clever enough for that.”</p> + +<p>A silence fell. The man at the foot of the couch had +stopped speaking to the lady, and looked on with a faint +smile.</p> + +<p>“I don’t know whether you ever met before,” +said the great lady.</p> + +<p>Mr Vladimir and the Assistant Commissioner, introduced, +acknowledged each other’s existence with punctilious and +guarded courtesy.</p> + +<p>“He’s been frightening me,” declared +suddenly the lady who sat by the side of Mr Vladimir, with an +inclination of the head towards that gentleman. The +Assistant Commissioner knew the lady.</p> + +<p>“You do not look frightened,” he pronounced, after +surveying her conscientiously with his tired and equable +gaze. He was thinking meantime to himself that in this +house one met everybody sooner or later. Mr +Vladimir’s rosy countenance was wreathed in smiles, because +he was witty, but his eyes remained serious, like the eyes of +convinced man.</p> + +<p>“Well, he tried to at least,” amended the +lady.</p> + +<p>“Force of habit perhaps,” said the Assistant +Commissioner, moved by an irresistible inspiration.</p> + +<p>“He has been threatening society with all sorts of +horrors,” continued the lady, whose enunciation was +caressing and slow, “apropos of this explosion in Greenwich +Park. It appears we all ought to quake in our shoes at +what’s coming if those people are not suppressed all over +the world. I had no idea this was such a grave +affair.”</p> + +<p>Mr Vladimir, affecting not to listen, leaned towards the +couch, talking amiably in subdued tones, but he heard the +Assistant Commissioner say:</p> + +<p>“I’ve no doubt that Mr Vladimir has a very precise +notion of the true importance of this affair.”</p> + +<p>Mr Vladimir asked himself what that confounded and intrusive +policeman was driving at. Descended from generations +victimised by the instruments of an arbitrary power, he was +racially, nationally, and individually afraid of the +police. It was an inherited weakness, altogether +independent of his judgment, of his reason, of his +experience. He was born to it. But that sentiment, +which resembled the irrational horror some people have of cats, +did not stand in the way of his immense contempt for the English +police. He finished the sentence addressed to the great +lady, and turned slightly in his chair.</p> + +<p>“You mean that we have a great experience of these +people. Yes; indeed, we suffer greatly from their activity, +while you”—Mr Vladimir hesitated for a moment, in +smiling perplexity—“while you suffer their presence +gladly in your midst,” he finished, displaying a dimple on +each clean-shaven cheek. Then he added more gravely: +“I may even say—because you do.”</p> + +<p>When Mr Vladimir ceased speaking the Assistant Commissioner +lowered his glance, and the conversation dropped. Almost +immediately afterwards Mr Vladimir took leave.</p> + +<p>Directly his back was turned on the couch the Assistant +Commissioner rose too.</p> + +<p>“I thought you were going to stay and take Annie +home,” said the lady patroness of Michaelis.</p> + +<p>“I find that I’ve yet a little work to do +to-night.”</p> + +<p>“In connection—?”</p> + +<p>“Well, yes—in a way.”</p> + +<p>“Tell me, what is it really—this +horror?”</p> + +<p>“It’s difficult to say what it is, but it may yet +be a <i>cause célèbre</i>,” said the +Assistant Commissioner.</p> + +<p>He left the drawing-room hurriedly, and found Mr Vladimir +still in the hall, wrapping up his throat carefully in a large +silk handkerchief. Behind him a footman waited, holding his +overcoat. Another stood ready to open the door. The +Assistant Commissioner was duly helped into his coat, and let out +at once. After descending the front steps he stopped, as if +to consider the way he should take. On seeing this through +the door held open, Mr Vladimir lingered in the hall to get out a +cigar and asked for a light. It was furnished to him by an +elderly man out of livery with an air of calm solicitude. +But the match went out; the footman then closed the door, and Mr +Vladimir lighted his large Havana with leisurely care.</p> + +<p>When at last he got out of the house, he saw with disgust the +“confounded policeman” still standing on the +pavement.</p> + +<p>“Can he be waiting for me,” thought Mr Vladimir, +looking up and down for some signs of a hansom. He saw +none. A couple of carriages waited by the curbstone, their +lamps blazing steadily, the horses standing perfectly still, as +if carved in stone, the coachmen sitting motionless under the big +fur capes, without as much as a quiver stirring the white thongs +of their big whips. Mr Vladimir walked on, and the +“confounded policeman” fell into step at his +elbow. He said nothing. At the end of the fourth +stride Mr Vladimir felt infuriated and uneasy. This could +not last.</p> + +<p>“Rotten weather,” he growled savagely.</p> + +<p>“Mild,” said the Assistant Commissioner without +passion. He remained silent for a little while. +“We’ve got hold of a man called Verloc,” he +announced casually.</p> + +<p>Mr Vladimir did not stumble, did not stagger back, did not +change his stride. But he could not prevent himself from +exclaiming: “What?” The Assistant Commissioner +did not repeat his statement. “You know him,” +he went on in the same tone.</p> + +<p>Mr Vladimir stopped, and became guttural. “What +makes you say that?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t. It’s Verloc who says +that.”</p> + +<p>“A lying dog of some sort,” said Mr Vladimir in +somewhat Oriental phraseology. But in his heart he was +almost awed by the miraculous cleverness of the English +police. The change of his opinion on the subject was so +violent that it made him for a moment feel slightly sick. +He threw away his cigar, and moved on.</p> + +<p>“What pleased me most in this affair,” the +Assistant went on, talking slowly, “is that it makes such +an excellent starting-point for a piece of work which I’ve +felt must be taken in hand—that is, the clearing out of +this country of all the foreign political spies, police, and that +sort of—of—dogs. In my opinion they are a +ghastly nuisance; also an element of danger. But we +can’t very well seek them out individually. The only +way is to make their employment unpleasant to their +employers. The thing’s becoming indecent. And +dangerous too, for us, here.”</p> + +<p>Mr Vladimir stopped again for a moment.</p> + +<p>“What do you mean?”</p> + +<p>“The prosecution of this Verloc will demonstrate to the +public both the danger and the indecency.”</p> + +<p>“Nobody will believe what a man of that sort +says,” said Mr Vladimir contemptuously.</p> + +<p>“The wealth and precision of detail will carry +conviction to the great mass of the public,” advanced the +Assistant Commissioner gently.</p> + +<p>“So that is seriously what you mean to do.”</p> + +<p>“We’ve got the man; we have no choice.”</p> + +<p>“You will be only feeding up the lying spirit of these +revolutionary scoundrels,” Mr Vladimir protested. +“What do you want to make a scandal for?—from +morality—or what?”</p> + +<p>Mr Vladimir’s anxiety was obvious. The Assistant +Commissioner having ascertained in this way that there must be +some truth in the summary statements of Mr Verloc, said +indifferently:</p> + +<p>“There’s a practical side too. We have +really enough to do to look after the genuine article. You +can’t say we are not effective. But we don’t +intend to let ourselves be bothered by shams under any pretext +whatever.”</p> + +<p>Mr Vladimir’s tone became lofty.</p> + +<p>“For my part, I can’t share your view. It is +selfish. My sentiments for my own country cannot be +doubted; but I’ve always felt that we ought to be good +Europeans besides—I mean governments and men.”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” said the Assistant Commissioner +simply. “Only you look at Europe from its other +end. But,” he went on in a good-natured tone, +“the foreign governments cannot complain of the +inefficiency of our police. Look at this outrage; a case +specially difficult to trace inasmuch as it was a sham. In +less than twelve hours we have established the identity of a man +literally blown to shreds, have found the organiser of the +attempt, and have had a glimpse of the inciter behind him. +And we could have gone further; only we stopped at the limits of +our territory.”</p> + +<p>“So this instructive crime was planned abroad,” Mr +Vladimir said quickly. “You admit it was planned +abroad?”</p> + +<p>“Theoretically. Theoretically only, on foreign +territory; abroad only by a fiction,” said the Assistant +Commissioner, alluding to the character of Embassies, which are +supposed to be part and parcel of the country to which they +belong. “But that’s a detail. I talked to +you of this business because it’s your government that +grumbles most at our police. You see that we are not so +bad. I wanted particularly to tell you of our +success.”</p> + +<p>“I’m sure I’m very grateful,” muttered +Mr Vladimir through his teeth.</p> + +<p>“We can put our finger on every anarchist here,” +went on the Assistant Commissioner, as though he were quoting +Chief Inspector Heat. “All that’s wanted now is +to do away with the agent provocateur to make everything +safe.”</p> + +<p>Mr Vladimir held up his hand to a passing hansom.</p> + +<p>“You’re not going in here,” remarked the +Assistant Commissioner, looking at a building of noble +proportions and hospitable aspect, with the light of a great hall +falling through its glass doors on a broad flight of steps.</p> + +<p>But Mr Vladimir, sitting, stony-eyed, inside the hansom, drove +off without a word.</p> + +<p>The Assistant Commissioner himself did not turn into the noble +building. It was the Explorers’ Club. The +thought passed through his mind that Mr Vladimir, honorary +member, would not be seen very often there in the future. +He looked at his watch. It was only half-past ten. He +had had a very full evening.</p> + +<h2>CHAPTER XI</h2> + +<p>After Chief Inspector Heat had left him Mr Verloc moved about +the parlour.</p> + +<p>From time to time he eyed his wife through the open +door. “She knows all about it now,” he thought +to himself with commiseration for her sorrow and with some +satisfaction as regarded himself. Mr Verloc’s soul, +if lacking greatness perhaps, was capable of tender +sentiments. The prospect of having to break the news to her +had put him into a fever. Chief Inspector Heat had relieved +him of the task. That was good as far as it went. It +remained for him now to face her grief.</p> + +<p>Mr Verloc had never expected to have to face it on account of +death, whose catastrophic character cannot be argued away by +sophisticated reasoning or persuasive eloquence. Mr Verloc +never meant Stevie to perish with such abrupt violence. He +did not mean him to perish at all. Stevie dead was a much +greater nuisance than ever he had been when alive. Mr +Verloc had augured a favourable issue to his enterprise, basing +himself not on Stevie’s intelligence, which sometimes plays +queer tricks with a man, but on the blind docility and on the +blind devotion of the boy. Though not much of a +psychologist, Mr Verloc had gauged the depth of Stevie’s +fanaticism. He dared cherish the hope of Stevie walking +away from the walls of the Observatory as he had been instructed +to do, taking the way shown to him several times previously, and +rejoining his brother-in-law, the wise and good Mr Verloc, +outside the precincts of the park. Fifteen minutes ought to +have been enough for the veriest fool to deposit the engine and +walk away. And the Professor had guaranteed more than +fifteen minutes. But Stevie had stumbled within five +minutes of being left to himself. And Mr Verloc was shaken +morally to pieces. He had foreseen everything but +that. He had foreseen Stevie distracted and +lost—sought for—found in some police station or +provincial workhouse in the end. He had foreseen Stevie +arrested, and was not afraid, because Mr Verloc had a great +opinion of Stevie’s loyalty, which had been carefully +indoctrinated with the necessity of silence in the course of many +walks. Like a peripatetic philosopher, Mr Verloc, strolling +along the streets of London, had modified Stevie’s view of +the police by conversations full of subtle reasonings. +Never had a sage a more attentive and admiring disciple. +The submission and worship were so apparent that Mr Verloc had +come to feel something like a liking for the boy. In any +case, he had not foreseen the swift bringing home of his +connection. That his wife should hit upon the precaution of +sewing the boy’s address inside his overcoat was the last +thing Mr Verloc would have thought of. One can’t +think of everything. That was what she meant when she said +that he need not worry if he lost Stevie during their +walks. She had assured him that the boy would turn up all +right. Well, he had turned up with a vengeance!</p> + +<p>“Well, well,” muttered Mr Verloc in his +wonder. What did she mean by it? Spare him the +trouble of keeping an anxious eye on Stevie? Most likely +she had meant well. Only she ought to have told him of the +precaution she had taken.</p> + +<p>Mr Verloc walked behind the counter of the shop. His +intention was not to overwhelm his wife with bitter +reproaches. Mr Verloc felt no bitterness. The +unexpected march of events had converted him to the doctrine of +fatalism. Nothing could be helped now. He said:</p> + +<p>“I didn’t mean any harm to come to the +boy.”</p> + +<p>Mrs Verloc shuddered at the sound of her husband’s +voice. She did not uncover her face. The trusted +secret agent of the late Baron Stott-Wartenheim looked at her for +a time with a heavy, persistent, undiscerning glance. The +torn evening paper was lying at her feet. It could not have +told her much. Mr Verloc felt the need of talking to his +wife.</p> + +<p>“It’s that damned Heat—eh?” he +said. “He upset you. He’s a brute, +blurting it out like this to a woman. I made myself ill +thinking how to break it to you. I sat for hours in the +little parlour of Cheshire Cheese thinking over the best +way. You understand I never meant any harm to come to that +boy.”</p> + +<p>Mr Verloc, the Secret Agent, was speaking the truth. It +was his marital affection that had received the greatest shock +from the premature explosion. He added:</p> + +<p>“I didn’t feel particularly gay sitting there and +thinking of you.”</p> + +<p>He observed another slight shudder of his wife, which affected +his sensibility. As she persisted in hiding her face in her +hands, he thought he had better leave her alone for a +while. On this delicate impulse Mr Verloc withdrew into the +parlour again, where the gas jet purred like a contented +cat. Mrs Verloc’s wifely forethought had left the +cold beef on the table with carving knife and fork and half a +loaf of bread for Mr Verloc’s supper. He noticed all +these things now for the first time, and cutting himself a piece +of bread and meat, began to eat.</p> + +<p>His appetite did not proceed from callousness. Mr Verloc +had not eaten any breakfast that day. He had left his home +fasting. Not being an energetic man, he found his +resolution in nervous excitement, which seemed to hold him mainly +by the throat. He could not have swallowed anything +solid. Michaelis’ cottage was as destitute of +provisions as the cell of a prisoner. The ticket-of-leave +apostle lived on a little milk and crusts of stale bread. +Moreover, when Mr Verloc arrived he had already gone upstairs +after his frugal meal. Absorbed in the toil and delight of +literary composition, he had not even answered Mr Verloc’s +shout up the little staircase.</p> + +<p>“I am taking this young fellow home for a day or +two.”</p> + +<p>And, in truth, Mr Verloc did not wait for an answer, but had +marched out of the cottage at once, followed by the obedient +Stevie.</p> + +<p>Now that all action was over and his fate taken out of his +hands with unexpected swiftness, Mr Verloc felt terribly empty +physically. He carved the meat, cut the bread, and devoured +his supper standing by the table, and now and then casting a +glance towards his wife. Her prolonged immobility disturbed +the comfort of his refection. He walked again into the +shop, and came up very close to her. This sorrow with a +veiled face made Mr Verloc uneasy. He expected, of course, +his wife to be very much upset, but he wanted her to pull herself +together. He needed all her assistance and all her loyalty +in these new conjunctures his fatalism had already accepted.</p> + +<p>“Can’t be helped,” he said in a tone of +gloomy sympathy. “Come, Winnie, we’ve got to +think of to-morrow. You’ll want all your wits about +you after I am taken away.”</p> + +<p>He paused. Mrs Verloc’s breast heaved +convulsively. This was not reassuring to Mr Verloc, in +whose view the newly created situation required from the two +people most concerned in it calmness, decision, and other +qualities incompatible with the mental disorder of passionate +sorrow. Mr Verloc was a humane man; he had come home +prepared to allow every latitude to his wife’s affection +for her brother.</p> + +<p>Only he did not understand either the nature or the whole +extent of that sentiment. And in this he was excusable, +since it was impossible for him to understand it without ceasing +to be himself. He was startled and disappointed, and his +speech conveyed it by a certain roughness of tone.</p> + +<p>“You might look at a fellow,” he observed after +waiting a while.</p> + +<p>As if forced through the hands covering Mrs Verloc’s +face the answer came, deadened, almost pitiful.</p> + +<p>“I don’t want to look at you as long as I +live.”</p> + +<p>“Eh? What!” Mr Verloc was merely +startled by the superficial and literal meaning of this +declaration. It was obviously unreasonable, the mere cry of +exaggerated grief. He threw over it the mantle of his +marital indulgence. The mind of Mr Verloc lacked +profundity. Under the mistaken impression that the value of +individuals consists in what they are in themselves, he could not +possibly comprehend the value of Stevie in the eyes of Mrs +Verloc. She was taking it confoundedly hard, he thought to +himself. It was all the fault of that damned Heat. +What did he want to upset the woman for? But she +mustn’t be allowed, for her own good, to carry on so till +she got quite beside herself.</p> + +<p>“Look here! You can’t sit like this in the +shop,” he said with affected severity, in which there was +some real annoyance; for urgent practical matters must be talked +over if they had to sit up all night. “Somebody might +come in at any minute,” he added, and waited again. +No effect was produced, and the idea of the finality of death +occurred to Mr Verloc during the pause. He changed his +tone. “Come. This won’t bring him +back,” he said gently, feeling ready to take her in his +arms and press her to his breast, where impatience and compassion +dwelt side by side. But except for a short shudder Mrs +Verloc remained apparently unaffected by the force of that +terrible truism. It was Mr Verloc himself who was +moved. He was moved in his simplicity to urge moderation by +asserting the claims of his own personality.</p> + +<p>“Do be reasonable, Winnie. What would it have been +if you had lost me!”</p> + +<p>He had vaguely expected to hear her cry out. But she did +not budge. She leaned back a little, quieted down to a +complete unreadable stillness. Mr Verloc’s heart +began to beat faster with exasperation and something resembling +alarm. He laid his hand on her shoulder, saying:</p> + +<p>“Don’t be a fool, Winnie.”</p> + +<p>She gave no sign. It was impossible to talk to any +purpose with a woman whose face one cannot see. Mr Verloc +caught hold of his wife’s wrists. But her hands +seemed glued fast. She swayed forward bodily to his tug, +and nearly went off the chair. Startled to feel her so +helplessly limp, he was trying to put her back on the chair when +she stiffened suddenly all over, tore herself out of his hands, +ran out of the shop, across the parlour, and into the +kitchen. This was very swift. He had just a glimpse +of her face and that much of her eyes that he knew she had not +looked at him.</p> + +<p>It all had the appearance of a struggle for the possession of +a chair, because Mr Verloc instantly took his wife’s place +in it. Mr Verloc did not cover his face with his hands, but +a sombre thoughtfulness veiled his features. A term of +imprisonment could not be avoided. He did not wish now to +avoid it. A prison was a place as safe from certain +unlawful vengeances as the grave, with this advantage, that in a +prison there is room for hope. What he saw before him was a +term of imprisonment, an early release and then life abroad +somewhere, such as he had contemplated already, in case of +failure. Well, it was a failure, if not exactly the sort of +failure he had feared. It had been so near success that he +could have positively terrified Mr Vladimir out of his ferocious +scoffing with this proof of occult efficiency. So at least +it seemed now to Mr Verloc. His prestige with the Embassy +would have been immense if—if his wife had not had the +unlucky notion of sewing on the address inside Stevie’s +overcoat. Mr Verloc, who was no fool, had soon perceived +the extraordinary character of the influence he had over Stevie, +though he did not understand exactly its origin—the +doctrine of his supreme wisdom and goodness inculcated by two +anxious women. In all the eventualities he had foreseen Mr +Verloc had calculated with correct insight on Stevie’s +instinctive loyalty and blind discretion. The eventuality +he had not foreseen had appalled him as a humane man and a fond +husband. From every other point of view it was rather +advantageous. Nothing can equal the everlasting discretion +of death. Mr Verloc, sitting perplexed and frightened in +the small parlour of the Cheshire Cheese, could not help +acknowledging that to himself, because his sensibility did not +stand in the way of his judgment. Stevie’s violent +disintegration, however disturbing to think about, only assured +the success; for, of course, the knocking down of a wall was not +the aim of Mr Vladimir’s menaces, but the production of a +moral effect. With much trouble and distress on Mr +Verloc’s part the effect might be said to have been +produced. When, however, most unexpectedly, it came home to +roost in Brett Street, Mr Verloc, who had been struggling like a +man in a nightmare for the preservation of his position, accepted +the blow in the spirit of a convinced fatalist. The +position was gone through no one’s fault really. A +small, tiny fact had done it. It was like slipping on a bit +of orange peel in the dark and breaking your leg.</p> + +<p>Mr Verloc drew a weary breath. He nourished no +resentment against his wife. He thought: She will have to +look after the shop while they keep me locked up. And +thinking also how cruelly she would miss Stevie at first, he felt +greatly concerned about her health and spirits. How would +she stand her solitude—absolutely alone in that +house? It would not do for her to break down while he was +locked up? What would become of the shop then? The +shop was an asset. Though Mr Verloc’s fatalism +accepted his undoing as a secret agent, he had no mind to be +utterly ruined, mostly, it must be owned, from regard for his +wife.</p> + +<p>Silent, and out of his line of sight in the kitchen, she +frightened him. If only she had had her mother with +her. But that silly old woman—An angry dismay +possessed Mr Verloc. He must talk with his wife. He +could tell her certainly that a man does get desperate under +certain circumstances. But he did not go incontinently to +impart to her that information. First of all, it was clear +to him that this evening was no time for business. He got +up to close the street door and put the gas out in the shop.</p> + +<p>Having thus assured a solitude around his hearthstone Mr +Verloc walked into the parlour, and glanced down into the +kitchen. Mrs Verloc was sitting in the place where poor +Stevie usually established himself of an evening with paper and +pencil for the pastime of drawing these coruscations of +innumerable circles suggesting chaos and eternity. Her arms +were folded on the table, and her head was lying on her +arms. Mr Verloc contemplated her back and the arrangement +of her hair for a time, then walked away from the kitchen +door. Mrs Verloc’s philosophical, almost disdainful +incuriosity, the foundation of their accord in domestic life made +it extremely difficult to get into contact with her, now this +tragic necessity had arisen. Mr Verloc felt this difficulty +acutely. He turned around the table in the parlour with his +usual air of a large animal in a cage.</p> + +<p>Curiosity being one of the forms of self-revelation, a +systematically incurious person remains always partly +mysterious. Every time he passed near the door Mr Verloc +glanced at his wife uneasily. It was not that he was afraid +of her. Mr Verloc imagined himself loved by that +woman. But she had not accustomed him to make +confidences. And the confidence he had to make was of a +profound psychological order. How with his want of practice +could he tell her what he himself felt but vaguely: that there +are conspiracies of fatal destiny, that a notion grows in a mind +sometimes till it acquires an outward existence, an independent +power of its own, and even a suggestive voice? He could not +inform her that a man may be haunted by a fat, witty, +clean-shaved face till the wildest expedient to get rid of it +appears a child of wisdom.</p> + +<p>On this mental reference to a First Secretary of a great +Embassy, Mr Verloc stopped in the doorway, and looking down into +the kitchen with an angry face and clenched fists, addressed his +wife.</p> + +<p>“You don’t know what a brute I had to deal +with.”</p> + +<p>He started off to make another perambulation of the table; +then when he had come to the door again he stopped, glaring in +from the height of two steps.</p> + +<p>“A silly, jeering, dangerous brute, with no more sense +than—After all these years! A man like me! And +I have been playing my head at that game. You didn’t +know. Quite right, too. What was the good of telling +you that I stood the risk of having a knife stuck into me any +time these seven years we’ve been married? I am not a +chap to worry a woman that’s fond of me. You had no +business to know.” Mr Verloc took another turn round +the parlour, fuming.</p> + +<p>“A venomous beast,” he began again from the +doorway. “Drive me out into a ditch to starve for a +joke. I could see he thought it was a damned good +joke. A man like me! Look here! Some of the +highest in the world got to thank me for walking on their two +legs to this day. That’s the man you’ve got +married to, my girl!”</p> + +<p>He perceived that his wife had sat up. Mrs +Verloc’s arms remained lying stretched on the table. +Mr Verloc watched at her back as if he could read there the +effect of his words.</p> + +<p>“There isn’t a murdering plot for the last eleven +years that I hadn’t my finger in at the risk of my +life. There’s scores of these revolutionists +I’ve sent off, with their bombs in their blamed pockets, to +get themselves caught on the frontier. The old Baron knew +what I was worth to his country. And here suddenly a swine +comes along—an ignorant, overbearing swine.”</p> + +<p>Mr Verloc, stepping slowly down two steps, entered the +kitchen, took a tumbler off the dresser, and holding it in his +hand, approached the sink, without looking at his wife. +“It wasn’t the old Baron who would have had the +wicked folly of getting me to call on him at eleven in the +morning. There are two or three in this town that, if they +had seen me going in, would have made no bones about knocking me +on the head sooner or later. It was a silly, murderous +trick to expose for nothing a man—like me.”</p> + +<p>Mr Verloc, turning on the tap above the sink, poured three +glasses of water, one after another, down his throat to quench +the fires of his indignation. Mr Vladimir’s conduct +was like a hot brand which set his internal economy in a +blaze. He could not get over the disloyalty of it. +This man, who would not work at the usual hard tasks which +society sets to its humbler members, had exercised his secret +industry with an indefatigable devotion. There was in Mr +Verloc a fund of loyalty. He had been loyal to his +employers, to the cause of social stability,—and to his +affections too—as became apparent when, after standing the +tumbler in the sink, he turned about, saying:</p> + +<p>“If I hadn’t thought of you I would have taken the +bullying brute by the throat and rammed his head into the +fireplace. I’d have been more than a match for that +pink-faced, smooth-shaved—”</p> + +<p>Mr Verloc, neglected to finish the sentence, as if there could +be no doubt of the terminal word. For the first time in his +life he was taking that incurious woman into his +confidence. The singularity of the event, the force and +importance of the personal feelings aroused in the course of this +confession, drove Stevie’s fate clean out of Mr +Verloc’s mind. The boy’s stuttering existence +of fears and indignations, together with the violence of his end, +had passed out of Mr Verloc’s mental sight for a +time. For that reason, when he looked up he was startled by +the inappropriate character of his wife’s stare. It +was not a wild stare, and it was not inattentive, but its +attention was peculiar and not satisfactory, inasmuch that it +seemed concentrated upon some point beyond Mr Verloc’s +person. The impression was so strong that Mr Verloc glanced +over his shoulder. There was nothing behind him: there was +just the whitewashed wall. The excellent husband of Winnie +Verloc saw no writing on the wall. He turned to his wife +again, repeating, with some emphasis:</p> + +<p>“I would have taken him by the throat. As true as +I stand here, if I hadn’t thought of you then I would have +half choked the life out of the brute before I let him get +up. And don’t you think he would have been anxious to +call the police either. He wouldn’t have dared. +You understand why—don’t you?”</p> + +<p>He blinked at his wife knowingly.</p> + +<p>“No,” said Mrs Verloc in an unresonant voice, and +without looking at him at all. “What are you talking +about?”</p> + +<p>A great discouragement, the result of fatigue, came upon Mr +Verloc. He had had a very full day, and his nerves had been +tried to the utmost. After a month of maddening worry, +ending in an unexpected catastrophe, the storm-tossed spirit of +Mr Verloc longed for repose. His career as a secret agent +had come to an end in a way no one could have foreseen; only, +now, perhaps he could manage to get a night’s sleep at +last. But looking at his wife, he doubted it. She was +taking it very hard—not at all like herself, he +thought. He made an effort to speak.</p> + +<p>“You’ll have to pull yourself together, my +girl,” he said sympathetically. “What’s +done can’t be undone.”</p> + +<p>Mrs Verloc gave a slight start, though not a muscle of her +white face moved in the least. Mr Verloc, who was not +looking at her, continued ponderously.</p> + +<p>“You go to bed now. What you want is a good +cry.”</p> + +<p>This opinion had nothing to recommend it but the general +consent of mankind. It is universally understood that, as +if it were nothing more substantial than vapour floating in the +sky, every emotion of a woman is bound to end in a shower. +And it is very probable that had Stevie died in his bed under her +despairing gaze, in her protecting arms, Mrs Verloc’s grief +would have found relief in a flood of bitter and pure +tears. Mrs Verloc, in common with other human beings, was +provided with a fund of unconscious resignation sufficient to +meet the normal manifestation of human destiny. Without +“troubling her head about it,” she was aware that it +“did not stand looking into very much.” But the +lamentable circumstances of Stevie’s end, which to Mr +Verloc’s mind had only an episodic character, as part of a +greater disaster, dried her tears at their very source. It +was the effect of a white-hot iron drawn across her eyes; at the +same time her heart, hardened and chilled into a lump of ice, +kept her body in an inward shudder, set her features into a +frozen contemplative immobility addressed to a whitewashed wall +with no writing on it. The exigencies of Mrs Verloc’s +temperament, which, when stripped of its philosophical reserve, +was maternal and violent, forced her to roll a series of thoughts +in her motionless head. These thoughts were rather imagined +than expressed. Mrs Verloc was a woman of singularly few +words, either for public or private use. With the rage and +dismay of a betrayed woman, she reviewed the tenor of her life in +visions concerned mostly with Stevie’s difficult existence +from its earliest days. It was a life of single purpose and +of a noble unity of inspiration, like those rare lives that have +left their mark on the thoughts and feelings of mankind. +But the visions of Mrs Verloc lacked nobility and +magnificence. She saw herself putting the boy to bed by the +light of a single candle on the deserted top floor of a +“business house,” dark under the roof and +scintillating exceedingly with lights and cut glass at the level +of the street like a fairy palace. That meretricious +splendour was the only one to be met in Mrs Verloc’s +visions. She remembered brushing the boy’s hair and +tying his pinafores—herself in a pinafore still; the +consolations administered to a small and badly scared creature by +another creature nearly as small but not quite so badly scared; +she had the vision of the blows intercepted (often with her own +head), of a door held desperately shut against a man’s rage +(not for very long); of a poker flung once (not very far), which +stilled that particular storm into the dumb and awful silence +which follows a thunder-clap. And all these scenes of +violence came and went accompanied by the unrefined noise of deep +vociferations proceeding from a man wounded in his paternal +pride, declaring himself obviously accursed since one of his kids +was a “slobbering idjut and the other a wicked +she-devil.” It was of her that this had been said +many years ago.</p> + +<p>Mrs Verloc heard the words again in a ghostly fashion, and +then the dreary shadow of the Belgravian mansion descended upon +her shoulders. It was a crushing memory, an exhausting +vision of countless breakfast trays carried up and down +innumerable stairs, of endless haggling over pence, of the +endless drudgery of sweeping, dusting, cleaning, from basement to +attics; while the impotent mother, staggering on swollen legs, +cooked in a grimy kitchen, and poor Stevie, the unconscious +presiding genius of all their toil, blacked the gentlemen’s +boots in the scullery. But this vision had a breath of a +hot London summer in it, and for a central figure a young man +wearing his Sunday best, with a straw hat on his dark head and a +wooden pipe in his mouth. Affectionate and jolly, he was a +fascinating companion for a voyage down the sparkling stream of +life; only his boat was very small. There was room in it +for a girl-partner at the oar, but no accommodation for +passengers. He was allowed to drift away from the threshold +of the Belgravian mansion while Winnie averted her tearful +eyes. He was not a lodger. The lodger was Mr Verloc, +indolent, and keeping late hours, sleepily jocular of a morning +from under his bed-clothes, but with gleams of infatuation in his +heavy lidded eyes, and always with some money in his +pockets. There was no sparkle of any kind on the lazy +stream of his life. It flowed through secret places. +But his barque seemed a roomy craft, and his taciturn magnanimity +accepted as a matter of course the presence of passengers.</p> + +<p>Mrs Verloc pursued the visions of seven years’ security +for Stevie, loyally paid for on her part; of security growing +into confidence, into a domestic feeling, stagnant and deep like +a placid pool, whose guarded surface hardly shuddered on the +occasional passage of Comrade Ossipon, the robust anarchist with +shamelessly inviting eyes, whose glance had a corrupt clearness +sufficient to enlighten any woman not absolutely imbecile.</p> + +<p>A few seconds only had elapsed since the last word had been +uttered aloud in the kitchen, and Mrs Verloc was staring already +at the vision of an episode not more than a fortnight old. +With eyes whose pupils were extremely dilated she stared at the +vision of her husband and poor Stevie walking up Brett Street +side by side away from the shop. It was the last scene of +an existence created by Mrs Verloc’s genius; an existence +foreign to all grace and charm, without beauty and almost without +decency, but admirable in the continuity of feeling and tenacity +of purpose. And this last vision had such plastic relief, +such nearness of form, such a fidelity of suggestive detail, that +it wrung from Mrs Verloc an anguished and faint murmur, +reproducing the supreme illusion of her life, an appalled murmur +that died out on her blanched lips.</p> + +<p>“Might have been father and son.”</p> + +<p>Mr Verloc stopped, and raised a care-worn face. +“Eh? What did you say?” he asked. +Receiving no reply, he resumed his sinister tramping. Then +with a menacing flourish of a thick, fleshy fist, he burst +out:</p> + +<p>“Yes. The Embassy people. A pretty lot, +ain’t they! Before a week’s out I’ll make +some of them wish themselves twenty feet underground. +Eh? What?”</p> + +<p>He glanced sideways, with his head down. Mrs Verloc +gazed at the whitewashed wall. A blank wall—perfectly +blank. A blankness to run at and dash your head +against. Mrs Verloc remained immovably seated. She +kept still as the population of half the globe would keep still +in astonishment and despair, were the sun suddenly put out in the +summer sky by the perfidy of a trusted providence.</p> + +<p>“The Embassy,” Mr Verloc began again, after a +preliminary grimace which bared his teeth wolfishly. +“I wish I could get loose in there with a cudgel for +half-an-hour. I would keep on hitting till there +wasn’t a single unbroken bone left amongst the whole +lot. But never mind, I’ll teach them yet what it +means trying to throw out a man like me to rot in the +streets. I’ve a tongue in my head. All the +world shall know what I’ve done for them. I am not +afraid. I don’t care. Everything’ll come +out. Every damned thing. Let them look +out!”</p> + +<p>In these terms did Mr Verloc declare his thirst for +revenge. It was a very appropriate revenge. It was in +harmony with the promptings of Mr Verloc’s genius. It +had also the advantage of being within the range of his powers +and of adjusting itself easily to the practice of his life, which +had consisted precisely in betraying the secret and unlawful +proceedings of his fellow-men. Anarchists or diplomats were +all one to him. Mr Verloc was temperamentally no respecter +of persons. His scorn was equally distributed over the +whole field of his operations. But as a member of a +revolutionary proletariat—which he undoubtedly was—he +nourished a rather inimical sentiment against social +distinction.</p> + +<p>“Nothing on earth can stop me now,” he added, and +paused, looking fixedly at his wife, who was looking fixedly at a +blank wall.</p> + +<p>The silence in the kitchen was prolonged, and Mr Verloc felt +disappointed. He had expected his wife to say +something. But Mrs Verloc’s lips, composed in their +usual form, preserved a statuesque immobility like the rest of +her face. And Mr Verloc was disappointed. Yet the +occasion did not, he recognised, demand speech from her. +She was a woman of very few words. For reasons involved in +the very foundation of his psychology, Mr Verloc was inclined to +put his trust in any woman who had given herself to him. +Therefore he trusted his wife. Their accord was perfect, +but it was not precise. It was a tacit accord, congenial to +Mrs Verloc’s incuriosity and to Mr Verloc’s habits of +mind, which were indolent and secret. They refrained from +going to the bottom of facts and motives.</p> + +<p>This reserve, expressing, in a way, their profound confidence +in each other, introduced at the same time a certain element of +vagueness into their intimacy. No system of conjugal +relations is perfect. Mr Verloc presumed that his wife had +understood him, but he would have been glad to hear her say what +she thought at the moment. It would have been a +comfort.</p> + +<p>There were several reasons why this comfort was denied +him. There was a physical obstacle: Mrs Verloc had no +sufficient command over her voice. She did not see any +alternative between screaming and silence, and instinctively she +chose the silence. Winnie Verloc was temperamentally a +silent person. And there was the paralysing atrocity of the +thought which occupied her. Her cheeks were blanched, her +lips ashy, her immobility amazing. And she thought without +looking at Mr Verloc: “This man took the boy away to murder +him. He took the boy away from his home to murder +him. He took the boy away from me to murder him!”</p> + +<p>Mrs Verloc’s whole being was racked by that inconclusive +and maddening thought. It was in her veins, in her bones, +in the roots of her hair. Mentally she assumed the biblical +attitude of mourning—the covered face, the rent garments; +the sound of wailing and lamentation filled her head. But +her teeth were violently clenched, and her tearless eyes were hot +with rage, because she was not a submissive creature. The +protection she had extended over her brother had been in its +origin of a fierce and indignant complexion. She had to love +him with a militant love. She had battled for +him—even against herself. His loss had the bitterness +of defeat, with the anguish of a baffled passion. It was +not an ordinary stroke of death. Moreover, it was not death +that took Stevie from her. It was Mr Verloc who took him +away. She had seen him. She had watched him, without +raising a hand, take the boy away. And she had let him go, +like—like a fool—a blind fool. Then after he +had murdered the boy he came home to her. Just came home +like any other man would come home to his wife. . . .</p> + +<p>Through her set teeth Mrs Verloc muttered at the wall:</p> + +<p>“And I thought he had caught a cold.”</p> + +<p>Mr Verloc heard these words and appropriated them.</p> + +<p>“It was nothing,” he said moodily. “I +was upset. I was upset on your account.”</p> + +<p>Mrs Verloc, turning her head slowly, transferred her stare +from the wall to her husband’s person. Mr Verloc, +with the tips of his fingers between his lips, was looking on the +ground.</p> + +<p>“Can’t be helped,” he mumbled, letting his +hand fall. “You must pull yourself together. +You’ll want all your wits about you. It is you who +brought the police about our ears. Never mind, I +won’t say anything more about it,” continued Mr +Verloc magnanimously. “You couldn’t +know.”</p> + +<p>“I couldn’t,” breathed out Mrs Verloc. +It was as if a corpse had spoken. Mr Verloc took up the +thread of his discourse.</p> + +<p>“I don’t blame you. I’ll make them sit +up. Once under lock and key it will be safe enough for me +to talk—you understand. You must reckon on me being +two years away from you,” he continued, in a tone of +sincere concern. “It will be easier for you than for +me. You’ll have something to do, while I—Look +here, Winnie, what you must do is to keep this business going for +two years. You know enough for that. You’ve a +good head on you. I’ll send you word when it’s +time to go about trying to sell. You’ll have to be +extra careful. The comrades will be keeping an eye on you +all the time. You’ll have to be as artful as you know +how, and as close as the grave. No one must know what you +are going to do. I have no mind to get a knock on the head +or a stab in the back directly I am let out.”</p> + +<p>Thus spoke Mr Verloc, applying his mind with ingenuity and +forethought to the problems of the future. His voice was +sombre, because he had a correct sentiment of the +situation. Everything which he did not wish to pass had +come to pass. The future had become precarious. His +judgment, perhaps, had been momentarily obscured by his dread of +Mr Vladimir’s truculent folly. A man somewhat over +forty may be excusably thrown into considerable disorder by the +prospect of losing his employment, especially if the man is a +secret agent of political police, dwelling secure in the +consciousness of his high value and in the esteem of high +personages. He was excusable.</p> + +<p>Now the thing had ended in a crash. Mr Verloc was cool; +but he was not cheerful. A secret agent who throws his +secrecy to the winds from desire of vengeance, and flaunts his +achievements before the public eye, becomes the mark for +desperate and bloodthirsty indignations. Without unduly +exaggerating the danger, Mr Verloc tried to bring it clearly +before his wife’s mind. He repeated that he had no +intention to let the revolutionists do away with him.</p> + +<p>He looked straight into his wife’s eyes. The +enlarged pupils of the woman received his stare into their +unfathomable depths.</p> + +<p>“I am too fond of you for that,” he said, with a +little nervous laugh.</p> + +<p>A faint flush coloured Mrs Verloc’s ghastly and +motionless face. Having done with the visions of the past, +she had not only heard, but had also understood the words uttered +by her husband. By their extreme disaccord with her mental +condition these words produced on her a slightly suffocating +effect. Mrs Verloc’s mental condition had the merit +of simplicity; but it was not sound. It was governed too +much by a fixed idea. Every nook and cranny of her brain +was filled with the thought that this man, with whom she had +lived without distaste for seven years, had taken the “poor +boy” away from her in order to kill him—the man to +whom she had grown accustomed in body and mind; the man whom she +had trusted, took the boy away to kill him! In its form, in +its substance, in its effect, which was universal, altering even +the aspect of inanimate things, it was a thought to sit still and +marvel at for ever and ever. Mrs Verloc sat still. +And across that thought (not across the kitchen) the form of Mr +Verloc went to and fro, familiarly in hat and overcoat, stamping +with his boots upon her brain. He was probably talking too; +but Mrs Verloc’s thought for the most part covered the +voice.</p> + +<p>Now and then, however, the voice would make itself +heard. Several connected words emerged at times. +Their purport was generally hopeful. On each of these +occasions Mrs Verloc’s dilated pupils, losing their far-off +fixity, followed her husband’s movements with the effect of +black care and impenetrable attention. Well informed upon +all matters relating to his secret calling, Mr Verloc augured +well for the success of his plans and combinations. He +really believed that it would be upon the whole easy for him to +escape the knife of infuriated revolutionists. He had +exaggerated the strength of their fury and the length of their +arm (for professional purposes) too often to have many illusions +one way or the other. For to exaggerate with judgment one +must begin by measuring with nicety. He knew also how much +virtue and how much infamy is forgotten in two years—two +long years. His first really confidential discourse to his +wife was optimistic from conviction. He also thought it +good policy to display all the assurance he could muster. +It would put heart into the poor woman. On his liberation, +which, harmonising with the whole tenor of his life, would be +secret, of course, they would vanish together without loss of +time. As to covering up the tracks, he begged his wife to +trust him for that. He knew how it was to be done so that +the devil himself—</p> + +<p>He waved his hand. He seemed to boast. He wished +only to put heart into her. It was a benevolent intention, +but Mr Verloc had the misfortune not to be in accord with his +audience.</p> + +<p>The self-confident tone grew upon Mrs Verloc’s ear which +let most of the words go by; for what were words to her +now? What could words do to her, for good or evil in the +face of her fixed idea? Her black glance followed that man +who was asserting his impunity—the man who had taken poor +Stevie from home to kill him somewhere. Mrs Verloc could +not remember exactly where, but her heart began to beat very +perceptibly.</p> + +<p>Mr Verloc, in a soft and conjugal tone, was now expressing his +firm belief that there were yet a good few years of quiet life +before them both. He did not go into the question of +means. A quiet life it must be and, as it were, nestling in +the shade, concealed among men whose flesh is grass; modest, like +the life of violets. The words used by Mr Verloc were: +“Lie low for a bit.” And far from England, of +course. It was not clear whether Mr Verloc had in his mind +Spain or South America; but at any rate somewhere abroad.</p> + +<p>This last word, falling into Mrs Verloc’s ear, produced +a definite impression. This man was talking of going +abroad. The impression was completely disconnected; and +such is the force of mental habit that Mrs Verloc at once and +automatically asked herself: “And what of +Stevie?”</p> + +<p>It was a sort of forgetfulness; but instantly she became aware +that there was no longer any occasion for anxiety on that +score. There would never be any occasion any more. +The poor boy had been taken out and killed. The poor boy +was dead.</p> + +<p>This shaking piece of forgetfulness stimulated Mrs +Verloc’s intelligence. She began to perceive certain +consequences which would have surprised Mr Verloc. There +was no need for her now to stay there, in that kitchen, in that +house, with that man—since the boy was gone for ever. +No need whatever. And on that Mrs Verloc rose as if raised +by a spring. But neither could she see what there was to +keep her in the world at all. And this inability arrested +her. Mr Verloc watched her with marital solicitude.</p> + +<p>“You’re looking more like yourself,” he said +uneasily. Something peculiar in the blackness of his +wife’s eyes disturbed his optimism. At that precise +moment Mrs Verloc began to look upon herself as released from all +earthly ties.</p> + +<p>She had her freedom. Her contract with existence, as +represented by that man standing over there, was at an end. +She was a free woman. Had this view become in some way +perceptible to Mr Verloc he would have been extremely +shocked. In his affairs of the heart Mr Verloc had been +always carelessly generous, yet always with no other idea than +that of being loved for himself. Upon this matter, his +ethical notions being in agreement with his vanity, he was +completely incorrigible. That this should be so in the case +of his virtuous and legal connection he was perfectly +certain. He had grown older, fatter, heavier, in the belief +that he lacked no fascination for being loved for his own +sake. When he saw Mrs Verloc starting to walk out of the +kitchen without a word he was disappointed.</p> + +<p>“Where are you going to?” he called out rather +sharply. “Upstairs?”</p> + +<p>Mrs Verloc in the doorway turned at the voice. An +instinct of prudence born of fear, the excessive fear of being +approached and touched by that man, induced her to nod at him +slightly (from the height of two steps), with a stir of the lips +which the conjugal optimism of Mr Verloc took for a wan and +uncertain smile.</p> + +<p>“That’s right,” he encouraged her +gruffly. “Rest and quiet’s what you want. +Go on. It won’t be long before I am with +you.”</p> + +<p>Mrs Verloc, the free woman who had had really no idea where +she was going to, obeyed the suggestion with rigid +steadiness.</p> + +<p>Mr Verloc watched her. She disappeared up the +stairs. He was disappointed. There was that within +him which would have been more satisfied if she had been moved to +throw herself upon his breast. But he was generous and +indulgent. Winnie was always undemonstrative and +silent. Neither was Mr Verloc himself prodigal of +endearments and words as a rule. But this was not an +ordinary evening. It was an occasion when a man wants to be +fortified and strengthened by open proofs of sympathy and +affection. Mr Verloc sighed, and put out the gas in the +kitchen. Mr Verloc’s sympathy with his wife was +genuine and intense. It almost brought tears into his eyes +as he stood in the parlour reflecting on the loneliness hanging +over her head. In this mood Mr Verloc missed Stevie very +much out of a difficult world. He thought mournfully of his +end. If only that lad had not stupidly destroyed +himself!</p> + +<p>The sensation of unappeasable hunger, not unknown after the +strain of a hazardous enterprise to adventurers of tougher fibre +than Mr Verloc, overcame him again. The piece of roast +beef, laid out in the likeness of funereal baked meats for +Stevie’s obsequies, offered itself largely to his +notice. And Mr Verloc again partook. He partook +ravenously, without restraint and decency, cutting thick slices +with the sharp carving knife, and swallowing them without +bread. In the course of that refection it occurred to Mr +Verloc that he was not hearing his wife move about the bedroom as +he should have done. The thought of finding her perhaps +sitting on the bed in the dark not only cut Mr Verloc’s +appetite, but also took from him the inclination to follow her +upstairs just yet. Laying down the carving knife, Mr Verloc +listened with careworn attention.</p> + +<p>He was comforted by hearing her move at last. She walked +suddenly across the room, and threw the window up. After a +period of stillness up there, during which he figured her to +himself with her head out, he heard the sash being lowered +slowly. Then she made a few steps, and sat down. +Every resonance of his house was familiar to Mr Verloc, who was +thoroughly domesticated. When next he heard his +wife’s footsteps overhead he knew, as well as if he had +seen her doing it, that she had been putting on her walking +shoes. Mr Verloc wriggled his shoulders slightly at this +ominous symptom, and moving away from the table, stood with his +back to the fireplace, his head on one side, and gnawing +perplexedly at the tips of his fingers. He kept track of +her movements by the sound. She walked here and there +violently, with abrupt stoppages, now before the chest of +drawers, then in front of the wardrobe. An immense load of +weariness, the harvest of a day of shocks and surprises, weighed +Mr Verloc’s energies to the ground.</p> + +<p>He did not raise his eyes till he heard his wife descending +the stairs. It was as he had guessed. She was dressed +for going out.</p> + +<p>Mrs Verloc was a free woman. She had thrown open the +window of the bedroom either with the intention of screaming +Murder! Help! or of throwing herself out. For she did +not exactly know what use to make of her freedom. Her +personality seemed to have been torn into two pieces, whose +mental operations did not adjust themselves very well to each +other. The street, silent and deserted from end to end, +repelled her by taking sides with that man who was so certain of +his impunity. She was afraid to shout lest no one should +come. Obviously no one would come. Her instinct of +self-preservation recoiled from the depth of the fall into that +sort of slimy, deep trench. Mrs Verloc closed the window, +and dressed herself to go out into the street by another +way. She was a free woman. She had dressed herself +thoroughly, down to the tying of a black veil over her +face. As she appeared before him in the light of the +parlour, Mr Verloc observed that she had even her little handbag +hanging from her left wrist. . . . Flying off to her mother, of +course.</p> + +<p>The thought that women were wearisome creatures after all +presented itself to his fatigued brain. But he was too +generous to harbour it for more than an instant. This man, +hurt cruelly in his vanity, remained magnanimous in his conduct, +allowing himself no satisfaction of a bitter smile or of a +contemptuous gesture. With true greatness of soul, he only +glanced at the wooden clock on the wall, and said in a perfectly +calm but forcible manner:</p> + +<p>“Five and twenty minutes past eight, Winnie. +There’s no sense in going over there so late. You +will never manage to get back to-night.”</p> + +<p>Before his extended hand Mrs Verloc had stopped short. +He added heavily: “Your mother will be gone to bed before +you get there. This is the sort of news that can +wait.”</p> + +<p>Nothing was further from Mrs Verloc’s thoughts than +going to her mother. She recoiled at the mere idea, and +feeling a chair behind her, she obeyed the suggestion of the +touch, and sat down. Her intention had been simply to get +outside the door for ever. And if this feeling was correct, +its mental form took an unrefined shape corresponding to her +origin and station. “I would rather walk the streets +all the days of my life,” she thought. But this +creature, whose moral nature had been subjected to a shock of +which, in the physical order, the most violent earthquake of +history could only be a faint and languid rendering, was at the +mercy of mere trifles, of casual contacts. She sat +down. With her hat and veil she had the air of a visitor, +of having looked in on Mr Verloc for a moment. Her instant +docility encouraged him, whilst her aspect of only temporary and +silent acquiescence provoked him a little.</p> + +<p>“Let me tell you, Winnie,” he said with authority, +“that your place is here this evening. Hang it all! +you brought the damned police high and low about my ears. I +don’t blame you—but it’s your doing all the +same. You’d better take this confounded hat +off. I can’t let you go out, old girl,” he +added in a softened voice.</p> + +<p>Mrs Verloc’s mind got hold of that declaration with +morbid tenacity. The man who had taken Stevie out from +under her very eyes to murder him in a locality whose name was at +the moment not present to her memory would not allow her to go +out. Of course he wouldn’t.</p> + +<p>Now he had murdered Stevie he would never let her go. He +would want to keep her for nothing. And on this +characteristic reasoning, having all the force of insane logic, +Mrs Verloc’s disconnected wits went to work +practically. She could slip by him, open the door, run +out. But he would dash out after her, seize her round the +body, drag her back into the shop. She could scratch, kick, +and bite—and stab too; but for stabbing she wanted a +knife. Mrs Verloc sat still under her black veil, in her +own house, like a masked and mysterious visitor of impenetrable +intentions.</p> + +<p>Mr Verloc’s magnanimity was not more than human. +She had exasperated him at last.</p> + +<p>“Can’t you say something? You have your own +dodges for vexing a man. Oh yes! I know your +deaf-and-dumb trick. I’ve seen you at it before +to-day. But just now it won’t do. And to begin +with, take this damned thing off. One can’t tell +whether one is talking to a dummy or to a live woman.”</p> + +<p>He advanced, and stretching out his hand, dragged the veil +off, unmasking a still, unreadable face, against which his +nervous exasperation was shattered like a glass bubble flung +against a rock. “That’s better,” he said, +to cover his momentary uneasiness, and retreated back to his old +station by the mantelpiece. It never entered his head that +his wife could give him up. He felt a little ashamed of +himself, for he was fond and generous. What could he +do? Everything had been said already. He protested +vehemently.</p> + +<p>“By heavens! You know that I hunted high and +low. I ran the risk of giving myself away to find somebody +for that accursed job. And I tell you again I +couldn’t find anyone crazy enough or hungry enough. +What do you take me for—a murderer, or what? The boy +is gone. Do you think I wanted him to blow himself +up? He’s gone. His troubles are over. +Ours are just going to begin, I tell you, precisely because he +did blow himself. I don’t blame you. But just +try to understand that it was a pure accident; as much an +accident as if he had been run over by a ’bus while +crossing the street.”</p> + +<p>His generosity was not infinite, because he was a human +being—and not a monster, as Mrs Verloc believed him to +be. He paused, and a snarl lifting his moustaches above a +gleam of white teeth gave him the expression of a reflective +beast, not very dangerous—a slow beast with a sleek head, +gloomier than a seal, and with a husky voice.</p> + +<p>“And when it comes to that, it’s as much your +doing as mine. That’s so. You may glare as much +as you like. I know what you can do in that way. +Strike me dead if I ever would have thought of the lad for that +purpose. It was you who kept on shoving him in my way when +I was half distracted with the worry of keeping the lot of us out +of trouble. What the devil made you? One would think +you were doing it on purpose. And I am damned if I know +that you didn’t. There’s no saying how much of +what’s going on you have got hold of on the sly with your +infernal don’t-care-a-damn way of looking nowhere in +particular, and saying nothing at all. . . . ”</p> + +<p>His husky domestic voice ceased for a while. Mrs Verloc +made no reply. Before that silence he felt ashamed of what +he had said. But as often happens to peaceful men in +domestic tiffs, being ashamed he pushed another point.</p> + +<p>“You have a devilish way of holding your tongue +sometimes,” he began again, without raising his +voice. “Enough to make some men go mad. +It’s lucky for you that I am not so easily put out as some +of them would be by your deaf-and-dumb sulks. I am fond of +you. But don’t you go too far. This isn’t +the time for it. We ought to be thinking of what +we’ve got to do. And I can’t let you go out +to-night, galloping off to your mother with some crazy tale or +other about me. I won’t have it. Don’t +you make any mistake about it: if you will have it that I killed +the boy, then you’ve killed him as much as I.”</p> + +<p>In sincerity of feeling and openness of statement, these words +went far beyond anything that had ever been said in this home, +kept up on the wages of a secret industry eked out by the sale of +more or less secret wares: the poor expedients devised by a +mediocre mankind for preserving an imperfect society from the +dangers of moral and physical corruption, both secret too of +their kind. They were spoken because Mr Verloc had felt +himself really outraged; but the reticent decencies of this home +life, nestling in a shady street behind a shop where the sun +never shone, remained apparently undisturbed. Mrs Verloc +heard him out with perfect propriety, and then rose from her +chair in her hat and jacket like a visitor at the end of a +call. She advanced towards her husband, one arm extended as +if for a silent leave-taking. Her net veil dangling down by +one end on the left side of her face gave an air of disorderly +formality to her restrained movements. But when she arrived +as far as the hearthrug, Mr Verloc was no longer standing +there. He had moved off in the direction of the sofa, +without raising his eyes to watch the effect of his tirade. +He was tired, resigned in a truly marital spirit. But he +felt hurt in the tender spot of his secret weakness. If she +would go on sulking in that dreadful overcharged +silence—why then she must. She was a master in that +domestic art. Mr Verloc flung himself heavily upon the +sofa, disregarding as usual the fate of his hat, which, as if +accustomed to take care of itself, made for a safe shelter under +the table.</p> + +<p>He was tired. The last particle of his nervous force had +been expended in the wonders and agonies of this day full of +surprising failures coming at the end of a harassing month of +scheming and insomnia. He was tired. A man +isn’t made of stone. Hang everything! Mr Verloc +reposed characteristically, clad in his outdoor garments. +One side of his open overcoat was lying partly on the +ground. Mr Verloc wallowed on his back. But he longed +for a more perfect rest—for sleep—for a few hours of +delicious forgetfulness. That would come later. +Provisionally he rested. And he thought: “I wish she +would give over this damned nonsense. It’s +exasperating.”</p> + +<p>There must have been something imperfect in Mrs Verloc’s +sentiment of regained freedom. Instead of taking the way of +the door she leaned back, with her shoulders against the tablet +of the mantelpiece, as a wayfarer rests against a fence. A +tinge of wildness in her aspect was derived from the black veil +hanging like a rag against her cheek, and from the fixity of her +black gaze where the light of the room was absorbed and lost +without the trace of a single gleam. This woman, capable of +a bargain the mere suspicion of which would have been infinitely +shocking to Mr Verloc’s idea of love, remained irresolute, +as if scrupulously aware of something wanting on her part for the +formal closing of the transaction.</p> + +<p>On the sofa Mr Verloc wriggled his shoulders into perfect +comfort, and from the fulness of his heart emitted a wish which +was certainly as pious as anything likely to come from such a +source.</p> + +<p>“I wish to goodness,” he growled huskily, “I +had never seen Greenwich Park or anything belonging to +it.”</p> + +<p>The veiled sound filled the small room with its moderate +volume, well adapted to the modest nature of the wish. The +waves of air of the proper length, propagated in accordance with +correct mathematical formulas, flowed around all the inanimate +things in the room, lapped against Mrs Verloc’s head as if +it had been a head of stone. And incredible as it may +appear, the eyes of Mrs Verloc seemed to grow still larger. +The audible wish of Mr Verloc’s overflowing heart flowed +into an empty place in his wife’s memory. Greenwich +Park. A park! That’s where the boy was +killed. A park—smashed branches, torn leaves, gravel, +bits of brotherly flesh and bone, all spouting up together in the +manner of a firework. She remembered now what she had +heard, and she remembered it pictorially. They had to +gather him up with the shovel. Trembling all over with +irrepressible shudders, she saw before her the very implement +with its ghastly load scraped up from the ground. Mrs +Verloc closed her eyes desperately, throwing upon that vision the +night of her eyelids, where after a rainlike fall of mangled +limbs the decapitated head of Stevie lingered suspended alone, +and fading out slowly like the last star of a pyrotechnic +display. Mrs Verloc opened her eyes.</p> + +<p>Her face was no longer stony. Anybody could have noted +the subtle change on her features, in the stare of her eyes, +giving her a new and startling expression; an expression seldom +observed by competent persons under the conditions of leisure and +security demanded for thorough analysis, but whose meaning could +not be mistaken at a glance. Mrs Verloc’s doubts as +to the end of the bargain no longer existed; her wits, no longer +disconnected, were working under the control of her will. +But Mr Verloc observed nothing. He was reposing in that +pathetic condition of optimism induced by excess of +fatigue. He did not want any more trouble—with his +wife too—of all people in the world. He had been +unanswerable in his vindication. He was loved for +himself. The present phase of her silence he interpreted +favourably. This was the time to make it up with her. +The silence had lasted long enough. He broke it by calling +to her in an undertone.</p> + +<p>“Winnie.”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” answered obediently Mrs Verloc the free +woman. She commanded her wits now, her vocal organs; she +felt herself to be in an almost preternaturally perfect control +of every fibre of her body. It was all her own, because the +bargain was at an end. She was clear sighted. She had +become cunning. She chose to answer him so readily for a +purpose. She did not wish that man to change his position +on the sofa which was very suitable to the circumstances. +She succeeded. The man did not stir. But after +answering him she remained leaning negligently against the +mantelpiece in the attitude of a resting wayfarer. She was +unhurried. Her brow was smooth. The head and +shoulders of Mr Verloc were hidden from her by the high side of +the sofa. She kept her eyes fixed on his feet.</p> + +<p>She remained thus mysteriously still and suddenly collected +till Mr Verloc was heard with an accent of marital authority, and +moving slightly to make room for her to sit on the edge of the +sofa.</p> + +<p>“Come here,” he said in a peculiar tone, which +might have been the tone of brutality, but was intimately known +to Mrs Verloc as the note of wooing.</p> + +<p>She started forward at once, as if she were still a loyal +woman bound to that man by an unbroken contract. Her right +hand skimmed slightly the end of the table, and when she had +passed on towards the sofa the carving knife had vanished without +the slightest sound from the side of the dish. Mr Verloc +heard the creaky plank in the floor, and was content. He +waited. Mrs Verloc was coming. As if the homeless +soul of Stevie had flown for shelter straight to the breast of +his sister, guardian and protector, the resemblance of her face +with that of her brother grew at every step, even to the droop of +the lower lip, even to the slight divergence of the eyes. +But Mr Verloc did not see that. He was lying on his back +and staring upwards. He saw partly on the ceiling and +partly on the wall the moving shadow of an arm with a clenched +hand holding a carving knife. It flickered up and +down. Its movements were leisurely. They were +leisurely enough for Mr Verloc to recognise the limb and the +weapon.</p> + +<p>They were leisurely enough for him to take in the full meaning +of the portent, and to taste the flavour of death rising in his +gorge. His wife had gone raving mad—murdering +mad. They were leisurely enough for the first paralysing +effect of this discovery to pass away before a resolute +determination to come out victorious from the ghastly struggle +with that armed lunatic. They were leisurely enough for Mr +Verloc to elaborate a plan of defence involving a dash behind the +table, and the felling of the woman to the ground with a heavy +wooden chair. But they were not leisurely enough to allow +Mr Verloc the time to move either hand or foot. The knife +was already planted in his breast. It met no resistance on +its way. Hazard has such accuracies. Into that +plunging blow, delivered over the side of the couch, Mrs Verloc +had put all the inheritance of her immemorial and obscure +descent, the simple ferocity of the age of caverns, and the +unbalanced nervous fury of the age of bar-rooms. Mr Verloc, +the Secret Agent, turning slightly on his side with the force of +the blow, expired without stirring a limb, in the muttered sound +of the word “Don’t” by way of protest.</p> + +<p>Mrs Verloc had let go the knife, and her extraordinary +resemblance to her late brother had faded, had become very +ordinary now. She drew a deep breath, the first easy breath +since Chief Inspector Heat had exhibited to her the labelled +piece of Stevie’s overcoat. She leaned forward on her +folded arms over the side of the sofa. She adopted that +easy attitude not in order to watch or gloat over the body of Mr +Verloc, but because of the undulatory and swinging movements of +the parlour, which for some time behaved as though it were at sea +in a tempest. She was giddy but calm. She had become +a free woman with a perfection of freedom which left her nothing +to desire and absolutely nothing to do, since Stevie’s +urgent claim on her devotion no longer existed. Mrs Verloc, +who thought in images, was not troubled now by visions, because +she did not think at all. And she did not move. She +was a woman enjoying her complete irresponsibility and endless +leisure, almost in the manner of a corpse. She did not +move, she did not think. Neither did the mortal envelope of +the late Mr Verloc reposing on the sofa. Except for the +fact that Mrs Verloc breathed these two would have been perfect +in accord: that accord of prudent reserve without superfluous +words, and sparing of signs, which had been the foundation of +their respectable home life. For it had been respectable, +covering by a decent reticence the problems that may arise in the +practice of a secret profession and the commerce of shady +wares. To the last its decorum had remained undisturbed by +unseemly shrieks and other misplaced sincerities of +conduct. And after the striking of the blow, this +respectability was continued in immobility and silence.</p> + +<p>Nothing moved in the parlour till Mrs Verloc raised her head +slowly and looked at the clock with inquiring mistrust. She +had become aware of a ticking sound in the room. It grew +upon her ear, while she remembered clearly that the clock on the +wall was silent, had no audible tick. What did it mean by +beginning to tick so loudly all of a sudden? Its face +indicated ten minutes to nine. Mrs Verloc cared nothing for +time, and the ticking went on. She concluded it could not +be the clock, and her sullen gaze moved along the walls, wavered, +and became vague, while she strained her hearing to locate the +sound. Tic, tic, tic.</p> + +<p>After listening for some time Mrs Verloc lowered her gaze +deliberately on her husband’s body. Its attitude of +repose was so home-like and familiar that she could do so without +feeling embarrassed by any pronounced novelty in the phenomena of +her home life. Mr Verloc was taking his habitual +ease. He looked comfortable.</p> + +<p>By the position of the body the face of Mr Verloc was not +visible to Mrs Verloc, his widow. Her fine, sleepy eyes, +travelling downward on the track of the sound, became +contemplative on meeting a flat object of bone which protruded a +little beyond the edge of the sofa. It was the handle of +the domestic carving knife with nothing strange about it but its +position at right angles to Mr Verloc’s waistcoat and the +fact that something dripped from it. Dark drops fell on the +floorcloth one after another, with a sound of ticking growing +fast and furious like the pulse of an insane clock. At its +highest speed this ticking changed into a continuous sound of +trickling. Mrs Verloc watched that transformation with +shadows of anxiety coming and going on her face. It was a +trickle, dark, swift, thin. . . . Blood!</p> + +<p>At this unforeseen circumstance Mrs Verloc abandoned her pose +of idleness and irresponsibility.</p> + +<p>With a sudden snatch at her skirts and a faint shriek she ran +to the door, as if the trickle had been the first sign of a +destroying flood. Finding the table in her way she gave it +a push with both hands as though it had been alive, with such +force that it went for some distance on its four legs, making a +loud, scraping racket, whilst the big dish with the joint crashed +heavily on the floor.</p> + +<p>Then all became still. Mrs Verloc on reaching the door +had stopped. A round hat disclosed in the middle of the +floor by the moving of the table rocked slightly on its crown in +the wind of her flight.</p> + +<h2>CHAPTER XII</h2> + +<p>Winnie Verloc, the widow of Mr Verloc, the sister of the late +faithful Stevie (blown to fragments in a state of innocence and +in the conviction of being engaged in a humanitarian enterprise), +did not run beyond the door of the parlour. She had indeed +run away so far from a mere trickle of blood, but that was a +movement of instinctive repulsion. And there she had +paused, with staring eyes and lowered head. As though she +had run through long years in her flight across the small +parlour, Mrs Verloc by the door was quite a different person from +the woman who had been leaning over the sofa, a little swimmy in +her head, but otherwise free to enjoy the profound calm of +idleness and irresponsibility. Mrs Verloc was no longer +giddy. Her head was steady. On the other hand, she +was no longer calm. She was afraid.</p> + +<p>If she avoided looking in the direction of her reposing +husband it was not because she was afraid of him. Mr Verloc +was not frightful to behold. He looked comfortable. +Moreover, he was dead. Mrs Verloc entertained no vain +delusions on the subject of the dead. Nothing brings them +back, neither love nor hate. They can do nothing to +you. They are as nothing. Her mental state was tinged +by a sort of austere contempt for that man who had let himself be +killed so easily. He had been the master of a house, the +husband of a woman, and the murderer of her Stevie. And now +he was of no account in every respect. He was of less +practical account than the clothing on his body, than his +overcoat, than his boots—than that hat lying on the +floor. He was nothing. He was not worth looking +at. He was even no longer the murderer of poor +Stevie. The only murderer that would be found in the room +when people came to look for Mr Verloc would +be—herself!</p> + +<p>Her hands shook so that she failed twice in the task of +refastening her veil. Mrs Verloc was no longer a person of +leisure and responsibility. She was afraid. The +stabbing of Mr Verloc had been only a blow. It had relieved +the pent-up agony of shrieks strangled in her throat, of tears +dried up in her hot eyes, of the maddening and indignant rage at +the atrocious part played by that man, who was less than nothing +now, in robbing her of the boy.</p> + +<p>It had been an obscurely prompted blow. The blood +trickling on the floor off the handle of the knife had turned it +into an extremely plain case of murder. Mrs Verloc, who +always refrained from looking deep into things, was compelled to +look into the very bottom of this thing. She saw there no +haunting face, no reproachful shade, no vision of remorse, no +sort of ideal conception. She saw there an object. +That object was the gallows. Mrs Verloc was afraid of the +gallows.</p> + +<p>She was terrified of them ideally. Having never set eyes +on that last argument of men’s justice except in +illustrative woodcuts to a certain type of tales, she first saw +them erect against a black and stormy background, festooned with +chains and human bones, circled about by birds that peck at dead +men’s eyes. This was frightful enough, but Mrs +Verloc, though not a well-informed woman, had a sufficient +knowledge of the institutions of her country to know that gallows +are no longer erected romantically on the banks of dismal rivers +or on wind-swept headlands, but in the yards of jails. +There within four high walls, as if into a pit, at dawn of day, +the murderer was brought out to be executed, with a horrible +quietness and, as the reports in the newspapers always said, +“in the presence of the authorities.” With her +eyes staring on the floor, her nostrils quivering with anguish +and shame, she imagined herself all alone amongst a lot of +strange gentlemen in silk hats who were calmly proceeding about +the business of hanging her by the neck. +That—never! Never! And how was it done? +The impossibility of imagining the details of such quiet +execution added something maddening to her abstract terror. +The newspapers never gave any details except one, but that one +with some affectation was always there at the end of a meagre +report. Mrs Verloc remembered its nature. It came +with a cruel burning pain into her head, as if the words +“The drop given was fourteen feet” had been scratched +on her brain with a hot needle. “The drop given was +fourteen feet.”</p> + +<p>These words affected her physically too. Her throat +became convulsed in waves to resist strangulation; and the +apprehension of the jerk was so vivid that she seized her head in +both hands as if to save it from being torn off her +shoulders. “The drop given was fourteen +feet.” No! that must never be. She could not +stand <i>that</i>. The thought of it even was not +bearable. She could not stand thinking of it. +Therefore Mrs Verloc formed the resolution to go at once and +throw herself into the river off one of the bridges.</p> + +<p>This time she managed to refasten her veil. With her +face as if masked, all black from head to foot except for some +flowers in her hat, she looked up mechanically at the +clock. She thought it must have stopped. She could +not believe that only two minutes had passed since she had looked +at it last. Of course not. It had been stopped all +the time. As a matter of fact, only three minutes had +elapsed from the moment she had drawn the first deep, easy breath +after the blow, to this moment when Mrs Verloc formed the +resolution to drown herself in the Thames. But Mrs Verloc +could not believe that. She seemed to have heard or read +that clocks and watches always stopped at the moment of murder +for the undoing of the murderer. She did not care. +“To the bridge—and over I go.” . . . But her +movements were slow.</p> + +<p>She dragged herself painfully across the shop, and had to hold +on to the handle of the door before she found the necessary +fortitude to open it. The street frightened her, since it +led either to the gallows or to the river. She floundered +over the doorstep head forward, arms thrown out, like a person +falling over the parapet of a bridge. This entrance into +the open air had a foretaste of drowning; a slimy dampness +enveloped her, entered her nostrils, clung to her hair. It +was not actually raining, but each gas lamp had a rusty little +halo of mist. The van and horses were gone, and in the +black street the curtained window of the carters’ +eating-house made a square patch of soiled blood-red light +glowing faintly very near the level of the pavement. Mrs +Verloc, dragging herself slowly towards it, thought that she was +a very friendless woman. It was true. It was so true +that, in a sudden longing to see some friendly face, she could +think of no one else but of Mrs Neale, the charwoman. She +had no acquaintances of her own. Nobody would miss her in a +social way. It must not be imagined that the Widow Verloc +had forgotten her mother. This was not so. Winnie had +been a good daughter because she had been a devoted sister. +Her mother had always leaned on her for support. No +consolation or advice could be expected there. Now that +Stevie was dead the bond seemed to be broken. She could not +face the old woman with the horrible tale. Moreover, it was +too far. The river was her present destination. Mrs +Verloc tried to forget her mother.</p> + +<p>Each step cost her an effort of will which seemed the last +possible. Mrs Verloc had dragged herself past the red glow +of the eating-house window. “To the bridge—and +over I go,” she repeated to herself with fierce +obstinacy. She put out her hand just in time to steady +herself against a lamp-post. “I’ll never get +there before morning,” she thought. The fear of death +paralysed her efforts to escape the gallows. It seemed to +her she had been staggering in that street for hours. +“I’ll never get there,” she thought. +“They’ll find me knocking about the streets. +It’s too far.” She held on, panting under her +black veil.</p> + +<p>“The drop given was fourteen feet.”</p> + +<p>She pushed the lamp-post away from her violently, and found +herself walking. But another wave of faintness overtook her +like a great sea, washing away her heart clean out of her +breast. “I will never get there,” she muttered, +suddenly arrested, swaying lightly where she stood. +“Never.”</p> + +<p>And perceiving the utter impossibility of walking as far as +the nearest bridge, Mrs Verloc thought of a flight abroad.</p> + +<p>It came to her suddenly. Murderers escaped. They +escaped abroad. Spain or California. Mere +names. The vast world created for the glory of man was only +a vast blank to Mrs Verloc. She did not know which way to +turn. Murderers had friends, relations, helpers—they +had knowledge. She had nothing. She was the most +lonely of murderers that ever struck a mortal blow. She was +alone in London: and the whole town of marvels and mud, with its +maze of streets and its mass of lights, was sunk in a hopeless +night, rested at the bottom of a black abyss from which no +unaided woman could hope to scramble out.</p> + +<p>She swayed forward, and made a fresh start blindly, with an +awful dread of falling down; but at the end of a few steps, +unexpectedly, she found a sensation of support, of +security. Raising her head, she saw a man’s face +peering closely at her veil. Comrade Ossipon was not afraid +of strange women, and no feeling of false delicacy could prevent +him from striking an acquaintance with a woman apparently very +much intoxicated. Comrade Ossipon was interested in +women. He held up this one between his two large palms, +peering at her in a business-like way till he heard her say +faintly “Mr Ossipon!” and then he very nearly let her +drop to the ground.</p> + +<p>“Mrs Verloc!” he exclaimed. “You +here!”</p> + +<p>It seemed impossible to him that she should have been +drinking. But one never knows. He did not go into +that question, but attentive not to discourage kind fate +surrendering to him the widow of Comrade Verloc, he tried to draw +her to his breast. To his astonishment she came quite +easily, and even rested on his arm for a moment before she +attempted to disengage herself. Comrade Ossipon would not +be brusque with kind fate. He withdrew his arm in a natural +way.</p> + +<p>“You recognised me,” she faltered out, standing +before him, fairly steady on her legs.</p> + +<p>“Of course I did,” said Ossipon with perfect +readiness. “I was afraid you were going to +fall. I’ve thought of you too often lately not to +recognise you anywhere, at any time. I’ve always +thought of you—ever since I first set eyes on +you.”</p> + +<p>Mrs Verloc seemed not to hear. “You were coming to +the shop?” she said nervously.</p> + +<p>“Yes; at once,” answered Ossipon. +“Directly I read the paper.”</p> + +<p>In fact, Comrade Ossipon had been skulking for a good two +hours in the neighbourhood of Brett Street, unable to make up his +mind for a bold move. The robust anarchist was not exactly +a bold conqueror. He remembered that Mrs Verloc had never +responded to his glances by the slightest sign of +encouragement. Besides, he thought the shop might be +watched by the police, and Comrade Ossipon did not wish the +police to form an exaggerated notion of his revolutionary +sympathies. Even now he did not know precisely what to +do. In comparison with his usual amatory speculations this +was a big and serious undertaking. He ignored how much +there was in it and how far he would have to go in order to get +hold of what there was to get—supposing there was a chance +at all. These perplexities checking his elation imparted to +his tone a soberness well in keeping with the circumstances.</p> + +<p>“May I ask you where you were going?” he inquired +in a subdued voice.</p> + +<p>“Don’t ask me!” cried Mrs Verloc with a +shuddering, repressed violence. All her strong vitality +recoiled from the idea of death. “Never mind where I +was going. . . .”</p> + +<p>Ossipon concluded that she was very much excited but perfectly +sober. She remained silent by his side for moment, then all +at once she did something which he did not expect. She +slipped her hand under his arm. He was startled by the act +itself certainly, and quite as much too by the palpably resolute +character of this movement. But this being a delicate +affair, Comrade Ossipon behaved with delicacy. He contented +himself by pressing the hand slightly against his robust +ribs. At the same time he felt himself being impelled +forward, and yielded to the impulse. At the end of Brett +Street he became aware of being directed to the left. He +submitted.</p> + +<p>The fruiterer at the corner had put out the blazing glory of +his oranges and lemons, and Brett Place was all darkness, +interspersed with the misty halos of the few lamps defining its +triangular shape, with a cluster of three lights on one stand in +the middle. The dark forms of the man and woman glided +slowly arm in arm along the walls with a loverlike and homeless +aspect in the miserable night.</p> + +<p>“What would you say if I were to tell you that I was +going to find you?” Mrs Verloc asked, gripping his arm with +force.</p> + +<p>“I would say that you couldn’t find anyone more +ready to help you in your trouble,” answered Ossipon, with +a notion of making tremendous headway. In fact, the +progress of this delicate affair was almost taking his breath +away.</p> + +<p>“In my trouble!” Mrs Verloc repeated slowly.</p> + +<p>“Yes.”</p> + +<p>“And do you know what my trouble is?” she +whispered with strange intensity.</p> + +<p>“Ten minutes after seeing the evening paper,” +explained Ossipon with ardour, “I met a fellow whom you may +have seen once or twice at the shop perhaps, and I had a talk +with him which left no doubt whatever in my mind. Then I +started for here, wondering whether you—I’ve been +fond of you beyond words ever since I set eyes on your +face,” he cried, as if unable to command his feelings.</p> + +<p>Comrade Ossipon assumed correctly that no woman was capable of +wholly disbelieving such a statement. But he did not know +that Mrs Verloc accepted it with all the fierceness the instinct +of self-preservation puts into the grip of a drowning +person. To the widow of Mr Verloc the robust anarchist was +like a radiant messenger of life.</p> + +<p>They walked slowly, in step. “I thought so,” +Mrs Verloc murmured faintly.</p> + +<p>“You’ve read it in my eyes,” suggested +Ossipon with great assurance.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” she breathed out into his inclined ear.</p> + +<p>“A love like mine could not be concealed from a woman +like you,” he went on, trying to detach his mind from +material considerations such as the business value of the shop, +and the amount of money Mr Verloc might have left in the +bank. He applied himself to the sentimental side of the +affair. In his heart of hearts he was a little shocked at +his success. Verloc had been a good fellow, and certainly a +very decent husband as far as one could see. However, +Comrade Ossipon was not going to quarrel with his luck for the +sake of a dead man. Resolutely he suppressed his sympathy +for the ghost of Comrade Verloc, and went on.</p> + +<p>“I could not conceal it. I was too full of +you. I daresay you could not help seeing it in my +eyes. But I could not guess it. You were always so +distant. . . .”</p> + +<p>“What else did you expect?” burst out Mrs +Verloc. “I was a respectable woman—”</p> + +<p>She paused, then added, as if speaking to herself, in sinister +resentment: “Till he made me what I am.”</p> + +<p>Ossipon let that pass, and took up his running. +“He never did seem to me to be quite worthy of you,” +he began, throwing loyalty to the winds. “You were +worthy of a better fate.”</p> + +<p>Mrs Verloc interrupted bitterly:</p> + +<p>“Better fate! He cheated me out of seven years of +life.”</p> + +<p>“You seemed to live so happily with him.” +Ossipon tried to exculpate the lukewarmness of his past +conduct. “It’s that what’s made me +timid. You seemed to love him. I was +surprised—and jealous,” he added.</p> + +<p>“Love him!” Mrs Verloc cried out in a whisper, +full of scorn and rage. “Love him! I was a good +wife to him. I am a respectable woman. You thought I +loved him! You did! Look here, Tom—”</p> + +<p>The sound of this name thrilled Comrade Ossipon with +pride. For his name was Alexander, and he was called Tom by +arrangement with the most familiar of his intimates. It was +a name of friendship—of moments of expansion. He had +no idea that she had ever heard it used by anybody. It was +apparent that she had not only caught it, but had treasured it in +her memory—perhaps in her heart.</p> + +<p>“Look here, Tom! I was a young girl. I was +done up. I was tired. I had two people depending on +what I could do, and it did seem as if I couldn’t do any +more. Two people—mother and the boy. He was +much more mine than mother’s. I sat up nights and +nights with him on my lap, all alone upstairs, when I +wasn’t more than eight years old myself. And +then—He was mine, I tell you. . . . You can’t +understand that. No man can understand it. What was I +to do? There was a young fellow—”</p> + +<p>The memory of the early romance with the young butcher +survived, tenacious, like the image of a glimpsed ideal in that +heart quailing before the fear of the gallows and full of revolt +against death.</p> + +<p>“That was the man I loved then,” went on the widow +of Mr Verloc. “I suppose he could see it in my eyes +too. Five and twenty shillings a week, and his father +threatened to kick him out of the business if he made such a fool +of himself as to marry a girl with a crippled mother and a crazy +idiot of a boy on her hands. But he would hang about me, +till one evening I found the courage to slam the door in his +face. I had to do it. I loved him dearly. Five +and twenty shillings a week! There was that other +man—a good lodger. What is a girl to do? Could +I’ve gone on the streets? He seemed kind. He +wanted me, anyhow. What was I to do with mother and that +poor boy? Eh? I said yes. He seemed +good-natured, he was freehanded, he had money, he never said +anything. Seven years—seven years a good wife to him, +the kind, the good, the generous, the—And he loved +me. Oh yes. He loved me till I sometimes wished +myself—Seven years. Seven years a wife to him. +And do you know what he was, that dear friend of yours? Do +you know what he was? He was a devil!”</p> + +<p>The superhuman vehemence of that whispered statement +completely stunned Comrade Ossipon. Winnie Verloc turning +about held him by both arms, facing him under the falling mist in +the darkness and solitude of Brett Place, in which all sounds of +life seemed lost as if in a triangular well of asphalt and +bricks, of blind houses and unfeeling stones.</p> + +<p>“No; I didn’t know,” he declared, with a +sort of flabby stupidity, whose comical aspect was lost upon a +woman haunted by the fear of the gallows, “but I do +now. I—I understand,” he floundered on, his +mind speculating as to what sort of atrocities Verloc could have +practised under the sleepy, placid appearances of his married +estate. It was positively awful. “I +understand,” he repeated, and then by a sudden inspiration +uttered an—“Unhappy woman!” of lofty +commiseration instead of the more familiar “Poor +darling!” of his usual practice. This was no usual +case. He felt conscious of something abnormal going on, +while he never lost sight of the greatness of the stake. +“Unhappy, brave woman!”</p> + +<p>He was glad to have discovered that variation; but he could +discover nothing else.</p> + +<p>“Ah, but he is dead now,” was the best he could +do. And he put a remarkable amount of animosity into his +guarded exclamation. Mrs Verloc caught at his arm with a +sort of frenzy.</p> + +<p>“You guessed then he was dead,” she murmured, as +if beside herself. “You! You guessed what I had +to do. Had to!”</p> + +<p>There were suggestions of triumph, relief, gratitude in the +indefinable tone of these words. It engrossed the whole +attention of Ossipon to the detriment of mere literal +sense. He wondered what was up with her, why she had worked +herself into this state of wild excitement. He even began +to wonder whether the hidden causes of that Greenwich Park affair +did not lie deep in the unhappy circumstances of the +Verlocs’ married life. He went so far as to suspect +Mr Verloc of having selected that extraordinary manner of +committing suicide. By Jove! that would account for the +utter inanity and wrong-headedness of the thing. No +anarchist manifestation was required by the circumstances. +Quite the contrary; and Verloc was as well aware of that as any +other revolutionist of his standing. What an immense joke +if Verloc had simply made fools of the whole of Europe, of the +revolutionary world, of the police, of the press, and of the +cocksure Professor as well. Indeed, thought Ossipon, in +astonishment, it seemed almost certain that he did! Poor +beggar! It struck him as very possible that of that +household of two it wasn’t precisely the man who was the +devil.</p> + +<p>Alexander Ossipon, nicknamed the Doctor, was naturally +inclined to think indulgently of his men friends. He eyed +Mrs Verloc hanging on his arm. Of his women friends he +thought in a specially practical way. Why Mrs Verloc should +exclaim at his knowledge of Mr Verloc’s death, which was no +guess at all, did not disturb him beyond measure. They +often talked like lunatics. But he was curious to know how +she had been informed. The papers could tell her nothing +beyond the mere fact: the man blown to pieces in Greenwich Park +not having been identified. It was inconceivable on any +theory that Verloc should have given her an inkling of his +intention—whatever it was. This problem interested +Comrade Ossipon immensely. He stopped short. They had +gone then along the three sides of Brett Place, and were near the +end of Brett Street again.</p> + +<p>“How did you first come to hear of it?” he asked +in a tone he tried to render appropriate to the character of the +revelations which had been made to him by the woman at his +side.</p> + +<p>She shook violently for a while before she answered in a +listless voice.</p> + +<p>“From the police. A chief inspector came, Chief +Inspector Heat he said he was. He showed +me—”</p> + +<p>Mrs Verloc choked. “Oh, Tom, they had to gather +him up with a shovel.”</p> + +<p>Her breast heaved with dry sobs. In a moment Ossipon +found his tongue.</p> + +<p>“The police! Do you mean to say the police came +already? That Chief Inspector Heat himself actually came to +tell you.”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” she confirmed in the same listless +tone. “He came just like this. He came. I +didn’t know. He showed me a piece of overcoat, +and—just like that. Do you know this? he +says.”</p> + +<p>“Heat! Heat! And what did he do?”</p> + +<p>Mrs Verloc’s head dropped. “Nothing. +He did nothing. He went away. The police were on that +man’s side,” she murmured tragically. +“Another one came too.”</p> + +<p>“Another—another inspector, do you mean?” +asked Ossipon, in great excitement, and very much in the tone of +a scared child.</p> + +<p>“I don’t know. He came. He looked like +a foreigner. He may have been one of them Embassy +people.”</p> + +<p>Comrade Ossipon nearly collapsed under this new shock.</p> + +<p>“Embassy! Are you aware what you are saying? +What Embassy? What on earth do you mean by +Embassy?”</p> + +<p>“It’s that place in Chesham Square. The +people he cursed so. I don’t know. What does it +matter!”</p> + +<p>“And that fellow, what did he do or say to +you?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t remember. . . . Nothing . . . . I +don’t care. Don’t ask me,” she pleaded in +a weary voice.</p> + +<p>“All right. I won’t,” assented Ossipon +tenderly. And he meant it too, not because he was touched +by the pathos of the pleading voice, but because he felt himself +losing his footing in the depths of this tenebrous affair. +Police! Embassy! Phew! For fear of adventuring +his intelligence into ways where its natural lights might fail to +guide it safely he dismissed resolutely all suppositions, +surmises, and theories out of his mind. He had the woman +there, absolutely flinging herself at him, and that was the +principal consideration. But after what he had heard +nothing could astonish him any more. And when Mrs Verloc, +as if startled suddenly out of a dream of safety, began to urge +upon him wildly the necessity of an immediate flight on the +Continent, he did not exclaim in the least. He simply said +with unaffected regret that there was no train till the morning, +and stood looking thoughtfully at her face, veiled in black net, +in the light of a gas lamp veiled in a gauze of mist.</p> + +<p>Near him, her black form merged in the night, like a figure +half chiselled out of a block of black stone. It was +impossible to say what she knew, how deep she was involved with +policemen and Embassies. But if she wanted to get away, it +was not for him to object. He was anxious to be off +himself. He felt that the business, the shop so strangely +familiar to chief inspectors and members of foreign Embassies, +was not the place for him. That must be dropped. But +there was the rest. These savings. The money!</p> + +<p>“You must hide me till the morning somewhere,” she +said in a dismayed voice.</p> + +<p>“Fact is, my dear, I can’t take you where I +live. I share the room with a friend.”</p> + +<p>He was somewhat dismayed himself. In the morning the +blessed ’tecs will be out in all the stations, no +doubt. And if they once got hold of her, for one reason or +another she would be lost to him indeed.</p> + +<p>“But you must. Don’t you care for me at +all—at all? What are you thinking of?”</p> + +<p>She said this violently, but she let her clasped hands fall in +discouragement. There was a silence, while the mist fell, +and darkness reigned undisturbed over Brett Place. Not a +soul, not even the vagabond, lawless, and amorous soul of a cat, +came near the man and the woman facing each other.</p> + +<p>“It would be possible perhaps to find a safe lodging +somewhere,” Ossipon spoke at last. “But the +truth is, my dear, I have not enough money to go and try +with—only a few pence. We revolutionists are not +rich.”</p> + +<p>He had fifteen shillings in his pocket. He added:</p> + +<p>“And there’s the journey before us, +too—first thing in the morning at that.”</p> + +<p>She did not move, made no sound, and Comrade Ossipon’s +heart sank a little. Apparently she had no suggestion to +offer. Suddenly she clutched at her breast, as if she had +felt a sharp pain there.</p> + +<p>“But I have,” she gasped. “I have the +money. I have enough money. Tom! Let us go from +here.”</p> + +<p>“How much have you got?” he inquired, without +stirring to her tug; for he was a cautious man.</p> + +<p>“I have the money, I tell you. All the +money.”</p> + +<p>“What do you mean by it? All the money there was +in the bank, or what?” he asked incredulously, but ready +not to be surprised at anything in the way of luck.</p> + +<p>“Yes, yes!” she said nervously. “All +there was. I’ve it all.”</p> + +<p>“How on earth did you manage to get hold of it +already?” he marvelled.</p> + +<p>“He gave it to me,” she murmured, suddenly subdued +and trembling. Comrade Ossipon put down his rising surprise +with a firm hand.</p> + +<p>“Why, then—we are saved,” he uttered +slowly.</p> + +<p>She leaned forward, and sank against his breast. He +welcomed her there. She had all the money. Her hat +was in the way of very marked effusion; her veil too. He +was adequate in his manifestations, but no more. She +received them without resistance and without abandonment, +passively, as if only half-sensible. She freed herself from +his lax embraces without difficulty.</p> + +<p>“You will save me, Tom,” she broke out, recoiling, +but still keeping her hold on him by the two lapels of his damp +coat. “Save me. Hide me. Don’t let +them have me. You must kill me first. I +couldn’t do it myself—I couldn’t, I +couldn’t—not even for what I am afraid of.”</p> + +<p>She was confoundedly bizarre, he thought. She was +beginning to inspire him with an indefinite uneasiness. He +said surlily, for he was busy with important thoughts:</p> + +<p>“What the devil <i>are</i> you afraid of?”</p> + +<p>“Haven’t you guessed what I was driven to +do!” cried the woman. Distracted by the vividness of +her dreadful apprehensions, her head ringing with forceful words, +that kept the horror of her position before her mind, she had +imagined her incoherence to be clearness itself. She had no +conscience of how little she had audibly said in the disjointed +phrases completed only in her thought. She had felt the +relief of a full confession, and she gave a special meaning to +every sentence spoken by Comrade Ossipon, whose knowledge did not +in the least resemble her own. “Haven’t you +guessed what I was driven to do!” Her voice +fell. “You needn’t be long in guessing then +what I am afraid of,” she continued, in a bitter and sombre +murmur. “I won’t have it. I +won’t. I won’t. I won’t. You +must promise to kill me first!” She shook the lapels +of his coat. “It must never be!”</p> + +<p>He assured her curtly that no promises on his part were +necessary, but he took good care not to contradict her in set +terms, because he had had much to do with excited women, and he +was inclined in general to let his experience guide his conduct +in preference to applying his sagacity to each special +case. His sagacity in this case was busy in other +directions. Women’s words fell into water, but the +shortcomings of time-tables remained. The insular nature of +Great Britain obtruded itself upon his notice in an odious +form. “Might just as well be put under lock and key +every night,” he thought irritably, as nonplussed as though +he had a wall to scale with the woman on his back. Suddenly +he slapped his forehead. He had by dint of cudgelling his +brains just thought of the Southampton—St Malo +service. The boat left about midnight. There was a +train at 10.30. He became cheery and ready to act.</p> + +<p>“From Waterloo. Plenty of time. We are all +right after all. . . . What’s the matter now? This +isn’t the way,” he protested.</p> + +<p>Mrs Verloc, having hooked her arm into his, was trying to drag +him into Brett Street again.</p> + +<p>“I’ve forgotten to shut the shop door as I went +out,” she whispered, terribly agitated.</p> + +<p>The shop and all that was in it had ceased to interest Comrade +Ossipon. He knew how to limit his desires. He was on +the point of saying “What of that? Let it be,” +but he refrained. He disliked argument about trifles. +He even mended his pace considerably on the thought that she +might have left the money in the drawer. But his +willingness lagged behind her feverish impatience.</p> + +<p>The shop seemed to be quite dark at first. The door +stood ajar. Mrs Verloc, leaning against the front, gasped +out:</p> + +<p>“Nobody has been in. Look! The +light—the light in the parlour.”</p> + +<p>Ossipon, stretching his head forward, saw a faint gleam in the +darkness of the shop.</p> + +<p>“There is,” he said.</p> + +<p>“I forgot it.” Mrs Verloc’s voice came from +behind her veil faintly. And as he stood waiting for her to +enter first, she said louder: “Go in and put it +out—or I’ll go mad.”</p> + +<p>He made no immediate objection to this proposal, so strangely +motived. “Where’s all that money?” he +asked.</p> + +<p>“On me! Go, Tom. Quick! Put it out. . +. . Go in!” she cried, seizing him by both shoulders from +behind.</p> + +<p>Not prepared for a display of physical force, Comrade Ossipon +stumbled far into the shop before her push. He was +astonished at the strength of the woman and scandalised by her +proceedings. But he did not retrace his steps in order to +remonstrate with her severely in the street. He was +beginning to be disagreeably impressed by her fantastic +behaviour. Moreover, this or never was the time to humour +the woman. Comrade Ossipon avoided easily the end of the +counter, and approached calmly the glazed door of the +parlour. The curtain over the panes being drawn back a +little he, by a very natural impulse, looked in, just as he made +ready to turn the handle. He looked in without a thought, +without intention, without curiosity of any sort. He looked +in because he could not help looking in. He looked in, and +discovered Mr Verloc reposing quietly on the sofa.</p> + +<p>A yell coming from the innermost depths of his chest died out +unheard and transformed into a sort of greasy, sickly taste on +his lips. At the same time the mental personality of +Comrade Ossipon executed a frantic leap backward. But his +body, left thus without intellectual guidance, held on to the +door handle with the unthinking force of an instinct. The +robust anarchist did not even totter. And he stared, his +face close to the glass, his eyes protruding out of his +head. He would have given anything to get away, but his +returning reason informed him that it would not do to let go the +door handle. What was it—madness, a nightmare, or a +trap into which he had been decoyed with fiendish +artfulness? Why—what for? He did not +know. Without any sense of guilt in his breast, in the full +peace of his conscience as far as these people were concerned, +the idea that he would be murdered for mysterious reasons by the +couple Verloc passed not so much across his mind as across the +pit of his stomach, and went out, leaving behind a trail of +sickly faintness—an indisposition. Comrade Ossipon +did not feel very well in a very special way for a moment—a +long moment. And he stared. Mr Verloc lay very still +meanwhile, simulating sleep for reasons of his own, while that +savage woman of his was guarding the door—invisible and +silent in the dark and deserted street. Was all this a some +sort of terrifying arrangement invented by the police for his +especial benefit? His modesty shrank from that +explanation.</p> + +<p>But the true sense of the scene he was beholding came to +Ossipon through the contemplation of the hat. It seemed an +extraordinary thing, an ominous object, a sign. Black, and +rim upward, it lay on the floor before the couch as if prepared +to receive the contributions of pence from people who would come +presently to behold Mr Verloc in the fullness of his domestic +ease reposing on a sofa. From the hat the eyes of the +robust anarchist wandered to the displaced table, gazed at the +broken dish for a time, received a kind of optical shock from +observing a white gleam under the imperfectly closed eyelids of +the man on the couch. Mr Verloc did not seem so much asleep +now as lying down with a bent head and looking insistently at his +left breast. And when Comrade Ossipon had made out the +handle of the knife he turned away from the glazed door, and +retched violently.</p> + +<p>The crash of the street door flung to made his very soul leap +in a panic. This house with its harmless tenant could still +be made a trap of—a trap of a terrible kind. Comrade +Ossipon had no settled conception now of what was happening to +him. Catching his thigh against the end of the counter, he +spun round, staggered with a cry of pain, felt in the distracting +clatter of the bell his arms pinned to his side by a convulsive +hug, while the cold lips of a woman moved creepily on his very +ear to form the words:</p> + +<p>“Policeman! He has seen me!”</p> + +<p>He ceased to struggle; she never let him go. Her hands +had locked themselves with an inseparable twist of fingers on his +robust back. While the footsteps approached, they breathed +quickly, breast to breast, with hard, laboured breaths, as if +theirs had been the attitude of a deadly struggle, while, in +fact, it was the attitude of deadly fear. And the time was +long.</p> + +<p>The constable on the beat had in truth seen something of Mrs +Verloc; only coming from the lighted thoroughfare at the other +end of Brett Street, she had been no more to him than a flutter +in the darkness. And he was not even quite sure that there +had been a flutter. He had no reason to hurry up. On +coming abreast of the shop he observed that it had been closed +early. There was nothing very unusual in that. The +men on duty had special instructions about that shop: what went +on about there was not to be meddled with unless absolutely +disorderly, but any observations made were to be reported. +There were no observations to make; but from a sense of duty and +for the peace of his conscience, owing also to that doubtful +flutter of the darkness, the constable crossed the road, and +tried the door. The spring latch, whose key was reposing +for ever off duty in the late Mr Verloc’s waistcoat pocket, +held as well as usual. While the conscientious officer was +shaking the handle, Ossipon felt the cold lips of the woman +stirring again creepily against his very ear:</p> + +<p>“If he comes in kill me—kill me, Tom.”</p> + +<p>The constable moved away, flashing as he passed the light of +his dark lantern, merely for form’s sake, at the shop +window. For a moment longer the man and the woman inside +stood motionless, panting, breast to breast; then her fingers +came unlocked, her arms fell by her side slowly. Ossipon +leaned against the counter. The robust anarchist wanted +support badly. This was awful. He was almost too +disgusted for speech. Yet he managed to utter a plaintive +thought, showing at least that he realised his position.</p> + +<p>“Only a couple of minutes later and you’d have +made me blunder against the fellow poking about here with his +damned dark lantern.”</p> + +<p>The widow of Mr Verloc, motionless in the middle of the shop, +said insistently:</p> + +<p>“Go in and put that light out, Tom. It will drive +me crazy.”</p> + +<p>She saw vaguely his vehement gesture of refusal. Nothing +in the world would have induced Ossipon to go into the +parlour. He was not superstitious, but there was too much +blood on the floor; a beastly pool of it all round the hat. +He judged he had been already far too near that corpse for his +peace of mind—for the safety of his neck, perhaps!</p> + +<p>“At the meter then! There. Look. In +that corner.”</p> + +<p>The robust form of Comrade Ossipon, striding brusque and +shadowy across the shop, squatted in a corner obediently; but +this obedience was without grace. He fumbled +nervously—and suddenly in the sound of a muttered curse the +light behind the glazed door flicked out to a gasping, hysterical +sigh of a woman. Night, the inevitable reward of +men’s faithful labours on this earth, night had fallen on +Mr Verloc, the tried revolutionist—“one of the old +lot”—the humble guardian of society; the invaluable +Secret Agent [delta] of Baron Stott-Wartenheim’s +despatches; a servant of law and order, faithful, trusted, +accurate, admirable, with perhaps one single amiable weakness: +the idealistic belief in being loved for himself.</p> + +<p>Ossipon groped his way back through the stuffy atmosphere, as +black as ink now, to the counter. The voice of Mrs Verloc, +standing in the middle of the shop, vibrated after him in that +blackness with a desperate protest.</p> + +<p>“I will not be hanged, Tom. I will +not—”</p> + +<p>She broke off. Ossipon from the counter issued a +warning: “Don’t shout like this,” then seemed +to reflect profoundly. “You did this thing quite by +yourself?” he inquired in a hollow voice, but with an +appearance of masterful calmness which filled Mrs Verloc’s +heart with grateful confidence in his protecting strength.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” she whispered, invisible.</p> + +<p>“I wouldn’t have believed it possible,” he +muttered. “Nobody would.” She heard him +move about and the snapping of a lock in the parlour door. +Comrade Ossipon had turned the key on Mr Verloc’s repose; +and this he did not from reverence for its eternal nature or any +other obscurely sentimental consideration, but for the precise +reason that he was not at all sure that there was not someone +else hiding somewhere in the house. He did not believe the +woman, or rather he was incapable by now of judging what could be +true, possible, or even probable in this astounding +universe. He was terrified out of all capacity for belief +or disbelief in regard of this extraordinary affair, which began +with police inspectors and Embassies and would end goodness knows +where—on the scaffold for someone. He was terrified +at the thought that he could not prove the use he made of his +time ever since seven o’clock, for he had been skulking +about Brett Street. He was terrified at this savage woman +who had brought him in there, and would probably saddle him with +complicity, at least if he were not careful. He was +terrified at the rapidity with which he had been involved in such +dangers—decoyed into it. It was some twenty minutes +since he had met her—not more.</p> + +<p>The voice of Mrs Verloc rose subdued, pleading piteously: +“Don’t let them hang me, Tom! Take me out of +the country. I’ll work for you. I’ll +slave for you. I’ll love you. I’ve no one +in the world. . . . Who would look at me if you +don’t!” She ceased for a moment; then in the +depths of the loneliness made round her by an insignificant +thread of blood trickling off the handle of a knife, she found a +dreadful inspiration to her—who had been the respectable +girl of the Belgravian mansion, the loyal, respectable wife of Mr +Verloc. “I won’t ask you to marry me,” +she breathed out in shame-faced accents.</p> + +<p>She moved a step forward in the darkness. He was +terrified at her. He would not have been surprised if she +had suddenly produced another knife destined for his +breast. He certainly would have made no resistance. +He had really not enough fortitude in him just then to tell her +to keep back. But he inquired in a cavernous, strange tone: +“Was he asleep?”</p> + +<p>“No,” she cried, and went on rapidly. +“He wasn’t. Not he. He had been telling +me that nothing could touch him. After taking the boy away +from under my very eyes to kill him—the loving, innocent, +harmless lad. My own, I tell you. He was lying on the +couch quite easy—after killing the boy—my boy. +I would have gone on the streets to get out of his sight. +And he says to me like this: ‘Come here,’ after +telling me I had helped to kill the boy. You hear, +Tom? He says like this: ‘Come here,’ after +taking my very heart out of me along with the boy to smash in the +dirt.”</p> + +<p>She ceased, then dreamily repeated twice: “Blood and +dirt. Blood and dirt.” A great light broke upon +Comrade Ossipon. It was that half-witted lad then who had +perished in the park. And the fooling of everybody all +round appeared more complete than ever—colossal. He +exclaimed scientifically, in the extremity of his astonishment: +“The degenerate—by heavens!”</p> + +<p>“Come here.” The voice of Mrs Verloc rose +again. “What did he think I was made of? Tell +me, Tom. Come here! Me! Like this! I had +been looking at the knife, and I thought I would come then if he +wanted me so much. Oh yes! I came—for the last +time. . . . With the knife.”</p> + +<p>He was excessively terrified at her—the sister of the +degenerate—a degenerate herself of a murdering type . . . +or else of the lying type. Comrade Ossipon might have been +said to be terrified scientifically in addition to all other +kinds of fear. It was an immeasurable and composite funk, +which from its very excess gave him in the dark a false +appearance of calm and thoughtful deliberation. For he +moved and spoke with difficulty, being as if half frozen in his +will and mind—and no one could see his ghastly face. +He felt half dead.</p> + +<p>He leaped a foot high. Unexpectedly Mrs Verloc had +desecrated the unbroken reserved decency of her home by a shrill +and terrible shriek.</p> + +<p>“Help, Tom! Save me. I won’t be +hanged!”</p> + +<p>He rushed forward, groping for her mouth with a silencing +hand, and the shriek died out. But in his rush he had +knocked her over. He felt her now clinging round his legs, +and his terror reached its culminating point, became a sort of +intoxication, entertained delusions, acquired the characteristics +of delirium tremens. He positively saw snakes now. He +saw the woman twined round him like a snake, not to be shaken +off. She was not deadly. She was death +itself—the companion of life.</p> + +<p>Mrs Verloc, as if relieved by the outburst, was very far from +behaving noisily now. She was pitiful.</p> + +<p>“Tom, you can’t throw me off now,” she +murmured from the floor. “Not unless you crush my +head under your heel. I won’t leave you.”</p> + +<p>“Get up,” said Ossipon.</p> + +<p>His face was so pale as to be quite visible in the profound +black darkness of the shop; while Mrs Verloc, veiled, had no +face, almost no discernible form. The trembling of +something small and white, a flower in her hat, marked her place, +her movements.</p> + +<p>It rose in the blackness. She had got up from the floor, +and Ossipon regretted not having run out at once into the +street. But he perceived easily that it would not do. +It would not do. She would run after him. She would +pursue him shrieking till she sent every policeman within hearing +in chase. And then goodness only knew what she would say of +him. He was so frightened that for a moment the insane +notion of strangling her in the dark passed through his +mind. And he became more frightened than ever! She +had him! He saw himself living in abject terror in some +obscure hamlet in Spain or Italy; till some fine morning they +found him dead too, with a knife in his breast—like Mr +Verloc. He sighed deeply. He dared not move. +And Mrs Verloc waited in silence the good pleasure of her +saviour, deriving comfort from his reflective silence.</p> + +<p>Suddenly he spoke up in an almost natural voice. His +reflections had come to an end.</p> + +<p>“Let’s get out, or we will lose the +train.”</p> + +<p>“Where are we going to, Tom?” she asked +timidly. Mrs Verloc was no longer a free woman.</p> + +<p>“Let’s get to Paris first, the best way we can. . +. . Go out first, and see if the way’s clear.”</p> + +<p>She obeyed. Her voice came subdued through the +cautiously opened door.</p> + +<p>“It’s all right.”</p> + +<p>Ossipon came out. Notwithstanding his endeavours to be +gentle, the cracked bell clattered behind the closed door in the +empty shop, as if trying in vain to warn the reposing Mr Verloc +of the final departure of his wife—accompanied by his +friend.</p> + +<p>In the hansom they presently picked up, the robust anarchist +became explanatory. He was still awfully pale, with eyes +that seemed to have sunk a whole half-inch into his tense +face. But he seemed to have thought of everything with +extraordinary method.</p> + +<p>“When we arrive,” he discoursed in a queer, +monotonous tone, “you must go into the station ahead of me, +as if we did not know each other. I will take the tickets, +and slip in yours into your hand as I pass you. Then you +will go into the first-class ladies’ waiting-room, and sit +there till ten minutes before the train starts. Then you +come out. I will be outside. You go in first on the +platform, as if you did not know me. There may be eyes +watching there that know what’s what. Alone you are +only a woman going off by train. I am known. With me, +you may be guessed at as Mrs Verloc running away. Do you +understand, my dear?” he added, with an effort.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” said Mrs Verloc, sitting there against him +in the hansom all rigid with the dread of the gallows and the +fear of death. “Yes, Tom.” And she added +to herself, like an awful refrain: “The drop given was +fourteen feet.”</p> + +<p>Ossipon, not looking at her, and with a face like a fresh +plaster cast of himself after a wasting illness, said: +“By-the-by, I ought to have the money for the tickets +now.”</p> + +<p>Mrs Verloc, undoing some hooks of her bodice, while she went +on staring ahead beyond the splashboard, handed over to him the +new pigskin pocket-book. He received it without a word, and +seemed to plunge it deep somewhere into his very breast. +Then he slapped his coat on the outside.</p> + +<p>All this was done without the exchange of a single glance; +they were like two people looking out for the first sight of a +desired goal. It was not till the hansom swung round a +corner and towards the bridge that Ossipon opened his lips +again.</p> + +<p>“Do you know how much money there is in that +thing?” he asked, as if addressing slowly some hobgoblin +sitting between the ears of the horse.</p> + +<p>“No,” said Mrs Verloc. “He gave it to +me. I didn’t count. I thought nothing of it at +the time. Afterwards—”</p> + +<p>She moved her right hand a little. It was so expressive +that little movement of that right hand which had struck the +deadly blow into a man’s heart less than an hour before +that Ossipon could not repress a shudder. He exaggerated it +then purposely, and muttered:</p> + +<p>“I am cold. I got chilled through.”</p> + +<p>Mrs Verloc looked straight ahead at the perspective of her +escape. Now and then, like a sable streamer blown across a +road, the words “The drop given was fourteen feet” +got in the way of her tense stare. Through her black veil +the whites of her big eyes gleamed lustrously like the eyes of a +masked woman.</p> + +<p>Ossipon’s rigidity had something business-like, a queer +official expression. He was heard again all of a sudden, as +though he had released a catch in order to speak.</p> + +<p>“Look here! Do you know whether your—whether +he kept his account at the bank in his own name or in some other +name.”</p> + +<p>Mrs Verloc turned upon him her masked face and the big white +gleam of her eyes.</p> + +<p>“Other name?” she said thoughtfully.</p> + +<p>“Be exact in what you say,” Ossipon lectured in +the swift motion of the hansom. “It’s extremely +important. I will explain to you. The bank has the +numbers of these notes. If they were paid to him in his own +name, then when his—his death becomes known, the notes may +serve to track us since we have no other money. You have no +other money on you?”</p> + +<p>She shook her head negatively.</p> + +<p>“None whatever?” he insisted.</p> + +<p>“A few coppers.”</p> + +<p>“It would be dangerous in that case. The money +would have then to be dealt specially with. Very +specially. We’d have perhaps to lose more than half +the amount in order to get these notes changed in a certain safe +place I know of in Paris. In the other case I mean if he +had his account and got paid out under some other name—say +Smith, for instance—the money is perfectly safe to +use. You understand? The bank has no means of knowing +that Mr Verloc and, say, Smith are one and the same person. +Do you see how important it is that you should make no mistake in +answering me? Can you answer that query at all? +Perhaps not. Eh?”</p> + +<p>She said composedly:</p> + +<p>“I remember now! He didn’t bank in his own +name. He told me once that it was on deposit in the name of +Prozor.”</p> + +<p>“You are sure?”</p> + +<p>“Certain.”</p> + +<p>“You don’t think the bank had any knowledge of his +real name? Or anybody in the bank or—”</p> + +<p>She shrugged her shoulders.</p> + +<p>“How can I know? Is it likely, Tom?</p> + +<p>“No. I suppose it’s not likely. It +would have been more comfortable to know. . . . Here we +are. Get out first, and walk straight in. Move +smartly.”</p> + +<p>He remained behind, and paid the cabman out of his own loose +silver. The programme traced by his minute foresight was +carried out. When Mrs Verloc, with her ticket for St Malo +in her hand, entered the ladies’ waiting-room, Comrade +Ossipon walked into the bar, and in seven minutes absorbed three +goes of hot brandy and water.</p> + +<p>“Trying to drive out a cold,” he explained to the +barmaid, with a friendly nod and a grimacing smile. Then he +came out, bringing out from that festive interlude the face of a +man who had drunk at the very Fountain of Sorrow. He raised +his eyes to the clock. It was time. He waited.</p> + +<p>Punctual, Mrs Verloc came out, with her veil down, and all +black—black as commonplace death itself, crowned with a few +cheap and pale flowers. She passed close to a little group +of men who were laughing, but whose laughter could have been +struck dead by a single word. Her walk was indolent, but +her back was straight, and Comrade Ossipon looked after it in +terror before making a start himself.</p> + +<p>The train was drawn up, with hardly anybody about its row of +open doors. Owing to the time of the year and to the +abominable weather there were hardly any passengers. Mrs +Verloc walked slowly along the line of empty compartments till +Ossipon touched her elbow from behind.</p> + +<p>“In here.”</p> + +<p>She got in, and he remained on the platform looking +about. She bent forward, and in a whisper:</p> + +<p>“What is it, Tom? Is there any danger? Wait +a moment. There’s the guard.”</p> + +<p>She saw him accost the man in uniform. They talked for a +while. She heard the guard say “Very well, +sir,” and saw him touch his cap. Then Ossipon came +back, saying: “I told him not to let anybody get into our +compartment.”</p> + +<p>She was leaning forward on her seat. “You think of +everything. . . . You’ll get me off, Tom?” she asked +in a gust of anguish, lifting her veil brusquely to look at her +saviour.</p> + +<p>She had uncovered a face like adamant. And out of this +face the eyes looked on, big, dry, enlarged, lightless, burnt out +like two black holes in the white, shining globes.</p> + +<p>“There is no danger,” he said, gazing into them +with an earnestness almost rapt, which to Mrs Verloc, flying from +the gallows, seemed to be full of force and tenderness. +This devotion deeply moved her—and the adamantine face lost +the stern rigidity of its terror. Comrade Ossipon gazed at +it as no lover ever gazed at his mistress’s face. +Alexander Ossipon, anarchist, nicknamed the Doctor, author of a +medical (and improper) pamphlet, late lecturer on the social +aspects of hygiene to working men’s clubs, was free from +the trammels of conventional morality—but he submitted to +the rule of science. He was scientific, and he gazed +scientifically at that woman, the sister of a degenerate, a +degenerate herself—of a murdering type. He gazed at +her, and invoked Lombroso, as an Italian peasant recommends +himself to his favourite saint. He gazed +scientifically. He gazed at her cheeks, at her nose, at her +eyes, at her ears. . . . Bad! . . . Fatal! Mrs +Verloc’s pale lips parting, slightly relaxed under his +passionately attentive gaze, he gazed also at her teeth. . . . +Not a doubt remained . . . a murdering type. . . . If Comrade +Ossipon did not recommend his terrified soul to Lombroso, it was +only because on scientific grounds he could not believe that he +carried about him such a thing as a soul. But he had in him +the scientific spirit, which moved him to testify on the platform +of a railway station in nervous jerky phrases.</p> + +<p>“He was an extraordinary lad, that brother of +yours. Most interesting to study. A perfect type in a +way. Perfect!”</p> + +<p>He spoke scientifically in his secret fear. And Mrs +Verloc, hearing these words of commendation vouchsafed to her +beloved dead, swayed forward with a flicker of light in her +sombre eyes, like a ray of sunshine heralding a tempest of +rain.</p> + +<p>“He was that indeed,” she whispered softly, with +quivering lips. “You took a lot of notice of him, +Tom. I loved you for it.”</p> + +<p>“It’s almost incredible the resemblance there was +between you two,” pursued Ossipon, giving a voice to his +abiding dread, and trying to conceal his nervous, sickening +impatience for the train to start. “Yes; he resembled +you.”</p> + +<p>These words were not especially touching or sympathetic. +But the fact of that resemblance insisted upon was enough in +itself to act upon her emotions powerfully. With a little +faint cry, and throwing her arms out, Mrs Verloc burst into tears +at last.</p> + +<p>Ossipon entered the carriage, hastily closed the door and +looked out to see the time by the station clock. Eight +minutes more. For the first three of these Mrs Verloc wept +violently and helplessly without pause or interruption. +Then she recovered somewhat, and sobbed gently in an abundant +fall of tears. She tried to talk to her saviour, to the man +who was the messenger of life.</p> + +<p>“Oh, Tom! How could I fear to die after he was +taken away from me so cruelly! How could I! How could +I be such a coward!”</p> + +<p>She lamented aloud her love of life, that life without grace +or charm, and almost without decency, but of an exalted +faithfulness of purpose, even unto murder. And, as often +happens in the lament of poor humanity, rich in suffering but +indigent in words, the truth—the very cry of +truth—was found in a worn and artificial shape picked up +somewhere among the phrases of sham sentiment.</p> + +<p>“How could I be so afraid of death! Tom, I +tried. But I am afraid. I tried to do away with +myself. And I couldn’t. Am I hard? I +suppose the cup of horrors was not full enough for such as +me. Then when you came. . . . ”</p> + +<p>She paused. Then in a gust of confidence and gratitude, +“I will live all my days for you, Tom!” she sobbed +out.</p> + +<p>“Go over into the other corner of the carriage, away +from the platform,” said Ossipon solicitously. She +let her saviour settle her comfortably, and he watched the coming +on of another crisis of weeping, still more violent than the +first. He watched the symptoms with a sort of medical air, +as if counting seconds. He heard the guard’s whistle +at last. An involuntary contraction of the upper lip bared +his teeth with all the aspect of savage resolution as he felt the +train beginning to move. Mrs Verloc heard and felt nothing, +and Ossipon, her saviour, stood still. He felt the train +roll quicker, rumbling heavily to the sound of the woman’s +loud sobs, and then crossing the carriage in two long strides he +opened the door deliberately, and leaped out.</p> + +<p>He had leaped out at the very end of the platform; and such +was his determination in sticking to his desperate plan that he +managed by a sort of miracle, performed almost in the air, to +slam to the door of the carriage. Only then did he find +himself rolling head over heels like a shot rabbit. He was +bruised, shaken, pale as death, and out of breath when he got +up. But he was calm, and perfectly able to meet the excited +crowd of railway men who had gathered round him in a +moment. He explained, in gentle and convincing tones, that +his wife had started at a moment’s notice for Brittany to +her dying mother; that, of course, she was greatly up-set, and he +considerably concerned at her state; that he was trying to cheer +her up, and had absolutely failed to notice at first that the +train was moving out. To the general exclamation, +“Why didn’t you go on to Southampton, then, +sir?” he objected the inexperience of a young sister-in-law +left alone in the house with three small children, and her alarm +at his absence, the telegraph offices being closed. He had +acted on impulse. “But I don’t think I’ll +ever try that again,” he concluded; smiled all round; +distributed some small change, and marched without a limp out of +the station.</p> + +<p>Outside, Comrade Ossipon, flush of safe banknotes as never +before in his life, refused the offer of a cab.</p> + +<p>“I can walk,” he said, with a little friendly +laugh to the civil driver.</p> + +<p>He could walk. He walked. He crossed the +bridge. Later on the towers of the Abbey saw in their +massive immobility the yellow bush of his hair passing under the +lamps. The lights of Victoria saw him too, and Sloane +Square, and the railings of the park. And Comrade Ossipon +once more found himself on a bridge. The river, a sinister +marvel of still shadows and flowing gleams mingling below in a +black silence, arrested his attention. He stood looking +over the parapet for a long time. The clock tower boomed a +brazen blast above his drooping head. He looked up at the +dial. . . . Half-past twelve of a wild night in the Channel.</p> + +<p>And again Comrade Ossipon walked. His robust form was +seen that night in distant parts of the enormous town slumbering +monstrously on a carpet of mud under a veil of raw mist. It +was seen crossing the streets without life and sound, or +diminishing in the interminable straight perspectives of shadowy +houses bordering empty roadways lined by strings of gas +lamps. He walked through Squares, Places, Ovals, Commons, +through monotonous streets with unknown names where the dust of +humanity settles inert and hopeless out of the stream of +life. He walked. And suddenly turning into a strip of +a front garden with a mangy grass plot, he let himself into a +small grimy house with a latch-key he took out of his pocket.</p> + +<p>He threw himself down on his bed all dressed, and lay still +for a whole quarter of an hour. Then he sat up suddenly, +drawing up his knees, and clasping his legs. The first dawn +found him open-eyed, in that same posture. This man who +could walk so long, so far, so aimlessly, without showing a sign +of fatigue, could also remain sitting still for hours without +stirring a limb or an eyelid. But when the late sun sent +its rays into the room he unclasped his hands, and fell back on +the pillow. His eyes stared at the ceiling. And +suddenly they closed. Comrade Ossipon slept in the +sunlight.</p> + +<h2>CHAPTER XIII</h2> + +<p>The enormous iron padlock on the doors of the wall cupboard +was the only object in the room on which the eye could rest +without becoming afflicted by the miserable unloveliness of forms +and the poverty of material. Unsaleable in the ordinary +course of business on account of its noble proportions, it had +been ceded to the Professor for a few pence by a marine dealer in +the east of London. The room was large, clean, respectable, +and poor with that poverty suggesting the starvation of every +human need except mere bread. There was nothing on the +walls but the paper, an expanse of arsenical green, soiled with +indelible smudges here and there, and with stains resembling +faded maps of uninhabited continents.</p> + +<p>At a deal table near a window sat Comrade Ossipon, holding his +head between his fists. The Professor, dressed in his only +suit of shoddy tweeds, but flapping to and fro on the bare boards +a pair of incredibly dilapidated slippers, had thrust his hands +deep into the overstrained pockets of his jacket. He was +relating to his robust guest a visit he had lately been paying to +the Apostle Michaelis. The Perfect Anarchist had even been +unbending a little.</p> + +<p>“The fellow didn’t know anything of Verloc’s +death. Of course! He never looks at the +newspapers. They make him too sad, he says. But never +mind. I walked into his cottage. Not a soul +anywhere. I had to shout half-a-dozen times before he +answered me. I thought he was fast asleep yet, in +bed. But not at all. He had been writing his book for +four hours already. He sat in that tiny cage in a litter of +manuscript. There was a half-eaten raw carrot on the table +near him. His breakfast. He lives on a diet of raw +carrots and a little milk now.”</p> + +<p>“How does he look on it?” asked Comrade Ossipon +listlessly.</p> + +<p>“Angelic. . . . I picked up a handful of his pages from +the floor. The poverty of reasoning is astonishing. +He has no logic. He can’t think consecutively. +But that’s nothing. He has divided his biography into +three parts, entitled—‘Faith, Hope, +Charity.’ He is elaborating now the idea of a world +planned out like an immense and nice hospital, with gardens and +flowers, in which the strong are to devote themselves to the +nursing of the weak.”</p> + +<p>The Professor paused.</p> + +<p>“Conceive you this folly, Ossipon? The weak! +The source of all evil on this earth!” he continued with +his grim assurance. “I told him that I dreamt of a +world like shambles, where the weak would be taken in hand for +utter extermination.”</p> + +<p>“Do you understand, Ossipon? The source of all +evil! They are our sinister masters—the weak, the +flabby, the silly, the cowardly, the faint of heart, and the +slavish of mind. They have power. They are the +multitude. Theirs is the kingdom of the earth. +Exterminate, exterminate! That is the only way of +progress. It is! Follow me, Ossipon. First the +great multitude of the weak must go, then the only relatively +strong. You see? First the blind, then the deaf and +the dumb, then the halt and the lame—and so on. Every +taint, every vice, every prejudice, every convention must meet +its doom.”</p> + +<p>“And what remains?” asked Ossipon in a stifled +voice.</p> + +<p>“I remain—if I am strong enough,” asserted +the sallow little Professor, whose large ears, thin like +membranes, and standing far out from the sides of his frail +skull, took on suddenly a deep red tint.</p> + +<p>“Haven’t I suffered enough from this oppression of +the weak?” he continued forcibly. Then tapping the +breast-pocket of his jacket: “And yet <i>I am</i> the +force,” he went on. “But the time! The +time! Give me time! Ah! that multitude, too stupid to +feel either pity or fear. Sometimes I think they have +everything on their side. Everything—even +death—my own weapon.”</p> + +<p>“Come and drink some beer with me at the Silenus,” +said the robust Ossipon after an interval of silence pervaded by +the rapid flap, flap of the slippers on the feet of the Perfect +Anarchist. This last accepted. He was jovial that day +in his own peculiar way. He slapped Ossipon’s +shoulder.</p> + +<p>“Beer! So be it! Let us drink and be merry, +for we are strong, and to-morrow we die.”</p> + +<p>He busied himself with putting on his boots, and talked +meanwhile in his curt, resolute tones.</p> + +<p>“What’s the matter with you, Ossipon? You +look glum and seek even my company. I hear that you are +seen constantly in places where men utter foolish things over +glasses of liquor. Why? Have you abandoned your +collection of women? They are the weak who feed the +strong—eh?”</p> + +<p>He stamped one foot, and picked up his other laced boot, +heavy, thick-soled, unblacked, mended many times. He smiled +to himself grimly.</p> + +<p>“Tell me, Ossipon, terrible man, has ever one of your +victims killed herself for you—or are your triumphs so far +incomplete—for blood alone puts a seal on greatness? +Blood. Death. Look at history.”</p> + +<p>“You be damned,” said Ossipon, without turning his +head.</p> + +<p>“Why? Let that be the hope of the weak, whose +theology has invented hell for the strong. Ossipon, my +feeling for you is amicable contempt. You couldn’t +kill a fly.”</p> + +<p>But rolling to the feast on the top of the omnibus the +Professor lost his high spirits. The contemplation of the +multitudes thronging the pavements extinguished his assurance +under a load of doubt and uneasiness which he could only shake +off after a period of seclusion in the room with the large +cupboard closed by an enormous padlock.</p> + +<p>“And so,” said over his shoulder Comrade Ossipon, +who sat on the seat behind. “And so Michaelis dreams +of a world like a beautiful and cheery hospital.”</p> + +<p>“Just so. An immense charity for the healing of +the weak,” assented the Professor sardonically.</p> + +<p>“That’s silly,” admitted Ossipon. +“You can’t heal weakness. But after all +Michaelis may not be so far wrong. In two hundred years +doctors will rule the world. Science reigns already. +It reigns in the shade maybe—but it reigns. And all +science must culminate at last in the science of +healing—not the weak, but the strong. Mankind wants +to live—to live.”</p> + +<p>“Mankind,” asserted the Professor with a +self-confident glitter of his iron-rimmed spectacles, “does +not know what it wants.”</p> + +<p>“But you do,” growled Ossipon. “Just +now you’ve been crying for time—time. +Well. The doctors will serve you out your time—if you +are good. You profess yourself to be one of the +strong—because you carry in your pocket enough stuff to +send yourself and, say, twenty other people into eternity. +But eternity is a damned hole. It’s time that you +need. You—if you met a man who could give you for +certain ten years of time, you would call him your +master.”</p> + +<p>“My device is: No God! No Master,” said the +Professor sententiously as he rose to get off the ’bus.</p> + +<p>Ossipon followed. “Wait till you are lying flat on +your back at the end of your time,” he retorted, jumping +off the footboard after the other. “Your scurvy, +shabby, mangy little bit of time,” he continued across the +street, and hopping on to the curbstone.</p> + +<p>“Ossipon, I think that you are a humbug,” the +Professor said, opening masterfully the doors of the renowned +Silenus. And when they had established themselves at a +little table he developed further this gracious thought. +“You are not even a doctor. But you are funny. +Your notion of a humanity universally putting out the tongue and +taking the pill from pole to pole at the bidding of a few solemn +jokers is worthy of the prophet. Prophecy! +What’s the good of thinking of what will be!” +He raised his glass. “To the destruction of what +is,” he said calmly.</p> + +<p>He drank and relapsed into his peculiarly close manner of +silence. The thought of a mankind as numerous as the sands +of the sea-shore, as indestructible, as difficult to handle, +oppressed him. The sound of exploding bombs was lost in +their immensity of passive grains without an echo. For +instance, this Verloc affair. Who thought of it now?</p> + +<p>Ossipon, as if suddenly compelled by some mysterious force, +pulled a much-folded newspaper out of his pocket. The +Professor raised his head at the rustle.</p> + +<p>“What’s that paper? Anything in it?” +he asked.</p> + +<p>Ossipon started like a scared somnambulist.</p> + +<p>“Nothing. Nothing whatever. The +thing’s ten days old. I forgot it in my pocket, I +suppose.”</p> + +<p>But he did not throw the old thing away. Before +returning it to his pocket he stole a glance at the last lines of +a paragraph. They ran thus: “<i>An impenetrable +mystery seems destined to hang for ever over this act of madness +or despair</i>.”</p> + +<p>Such were the end words of an item of news headed: +“Suicide of Lady Passenger from a cross-Channel +Boat.” Comrade Ossipon was familiar with the beauties +of its journalistic style. “<i>An impenetrable +mystery seems destined to hang for ever</i>. . . . ” +He knew every word by heart. “<i>An impenetrable +mystery</i>. . . . ”</p> + +<p>And the robust anarchist, hanging his head on his breast, fell +into a long reverie.</p> + +<p>He was menaced by this thing in the very sources of his +existence. He could not issue forth to meet his various +conquests, those that he courted on benches in Kensington +Gardens, and those he met near area railings, without the dread +of beginning to talk to them of an impenetrable mystery destined. +. . . He was becoming scientifically afraid of insanity lying in +wait for him amongst these lines. “<i>To hang for +ever over</i>.” It was an obsession, a torture. +He had lately failed to keep several of these appointments, whose +note used to be an unbounded trustfulness in the language of +sentiment and manly tenderness. The confiding disposition +of various classes of women satisfied the needs of his self-love, +and put some material means into his hand. He needed it to +live. It was there. But if he could no longer make +use of it, he ran the risk of starving his ideals and his body . +. . “<i>This act of madness or despair</i>.”</p> + +<p>“An impenetrable mystery” was sure “to hang +for ever” as far as all mankind was concerned. But +what of that if he alone of all men could never get rid of the +cursed knowledge? And Comrade Ossipon’s knowledge was +as precise as the newspaper man could make it—up to the +very threshold of the “<i>mystery destined to hang for +ever</i>. . . .”</p> + +<p>Comrade Ossipon was well informed. He knew what the +gangway man of the steamer had seen: “A lady in a black +dress and a black veil, wandering at midnight alongside, on the +quay. ‘Are you going by the boat, ma’am,’ +he had asked her encouragingly. ‘This +way.’ She seemed not to know what to do. He +helped her on board. She seemed weak.”</p> + +<p>And he knew also what the stewardess had seen: A lady in black +with a white face standing in the middle of the empty +ladies’ cabin. The stewardess induced her to lie down +there. The lady seemed quite unwilling to speak, and as if +she were in some awful trouble. The next the stewardess +knew she was gone from the ladies’ cabin. The +stewardess then went on deck to look for her, and Comrade Ossipon +was informed that the good woman found the unhappy lady lying +down in one of the hooded seats. Her eyes were open, but +she would not answer anything that was said to her. She +seemed very ill. The stewardess fetched the chief steward, +and those two people stood by the side of the hooded seat +consulting over their extraordinary and tragic passenger. +They talked in audible whispers (for she seemed past hearing) of +St Malo and the Consul there, of communicating with her people in +England. Then they went away to arrange for her removal +down below, for indeed by what they could see of her face she +seemed to them to be dying. But Comrade Ossipon knew that +behind that white mask of despair there was struggling against +terror and despair a vigour of vitality, a love of life that +could resist the furious anguish which drives to murder and the +fear, the blind, mad fear of the gallows. He knew. +But the stewardess and the chief steward knew nothing, except +that when they came back for her in less than five minutes the +lady in black was no longer in the hooded seat. She was +nowhere. She was gone. It was then five o’clock +in the morning, and it was no accident either. An hour +afterwards one of the steamer’s hands found a wedding ring +left lying on the seat. It had stuck to the wood in a bit +of wet, and its glitter caught the man’s eye. There +was a date, 24th June 1879, engraved inside. “<i>An +impenetrable mystery is destined to hang for ever</i>. . . . +”</p> + +<p>And Comrade Ossipon raised his bowed head, beloved of various +humble women of these isles, Apollo-like in the sunniness of its +bush of hair.</p> + +<p>The Professor had grown restless meantime. He rose.</p> + +<p>“Stay,” said Ossipon hurriedly. “Here, +what do you know of madness and despair?”</p> + +<p>The Professor passed the tip of his tongue on his dry, thin +lips, and said doctorally:</p> + +<p>“There are no such things. All passion is lost +now. The world is mediocre, limp, without force. And +madness and despair are a force. And force is a crime in +the eyes of the fools, the weak and the silly who rule the +roost. You are mediocre. Verloc, whose affair the +police has managed to smother so nicely, was mediocre. And +the police murdered him. He was mediocre. Everybody +is mediocre. Madness and despair! Give me that for a +lever, and I’ll move the world. Ossipon, you have my +cordial scorn. You are incapable of conceiving even what +the fat-fed citizen would call a crime. You have no +force.” He paused, smiling sardonically under the +fierce glitter of his thick glasses.</p> + +<p>“And let me tell you that this little legacy they say +you’ve come into has not improved your intelligence. +You sit at your beer like a dummy. Good-bye.”</p> + +<p>“Will you have it?” said Ossipon, looking up with +an idiotic grin.</p> + +<p>“Have what?”</p> + +<p>“The legacy. All of it.”</p> + +<p>The incorruptible Professor only smiled. His clothes +were all but falling off him, his boots, shapeless with repairs, +heavy like lead, let water in at every step. He said:</p> + +<p>“I will send you by-and-by a small bill for certain +chemicals which I shall order to-morrow. I need them +badly. Understood—eh?”</p> + +<p>Ossipon lowered his head slowly. He was alone. +“<i>An impenetrable mystery</i>. . . . ” It +seemed to him that suspended in the air before him he saw his own +brain pulsating to the rhythm of an impenetrable mystery. +It was diseased clearly. . . . “<i>This act of +madness or despair</i>.”</p> + +<p>The mechanical piano near the door played through a valse +cheekily, then fell silent all at once, as if gone grumpy.</p> + +<p>Comrade Ossipon, nicknamed the Doctor, went out of the Silenus +beer-hall. At the door he hesitated, blinking at a not too +splendid sunlight—and the paper with the report of the +suicide of a lady was in his pocket. His heart was beating +against it. The suicide of a lady—<i>this act of +madness or despair</i>.</p> + +<p>He walked along the street without looking where he put his +feet; and he walked in a direction which would not bring him to +the place of appointment with another lady (an elderly nursery +governess putting her trust in an Apollo-like ambrosial +head). He was walking away from it. He could face no +woman. It was ruin. He could neither think, work, +sleep, nor eat. But he was beginning to drink with +pleasure, with anticipation, with hope. It was ruin. +His revolutionary career, sustained by the sentiment and +trustfulness of many women, was menaced by an impenetrable +mystery—the mystery of a human brain pulsating wrongfully +to the rhythm of journalistic phrases. “ . . . +<i>Will hang for ever over this act</i>. . . . It was inclining +towards the gutter . . . <i>of madness or despair</i>.”</p> + +<p>“I am seriously ill,” he muttered to himself with +scientific insight. Already his robust form, with an +Embassy’s secret-service money (inherited from Mr Verloc) +in his pockets, was marching in the gutter as if in training for +the task of an inevitable future. Already he bowed his +broad shoulders, his head of ambrosial locks, as if ready to +receive the leather yoke of the sandwich board. As on that +night, more than a week ago, Comrade Ossipon walked without +looking where he put his feet, feeling no fatigue, feeling +nothing, seeing nothing, hearing not a sound. “<i>An +impenetrable mystery</i>. . . .” He walked +disregarded. . . . “<i>This act of madness or +despair</i>.”</p> + +<p>And the incorruptible Professor walked too, averting his eyes +from the odious multitude of mankind. He had no +future. He disdained it. He was a force. His +thoughts caressed the images of ruin and destruction. He +walked frail, insignificant, shabby, miserable—and terrible +in the simplicity of his idea calling madness and despair to the +regeneration of the world. Nobody looked at him. He +passed on unsuspected and deadly, like a pest in the street full +of men.</p> + +<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SECRET AGENT ***</div> +<div style='text-align:left'> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will +be renamed. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part +of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project +Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ +concept and trademark. 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