The Secret Agent: A Simple Tale

“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?”

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.

“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.”

“That’s a very precarious trade,” murmured the Assistant Commissioner.“Why did he go in for that?”

The Chief Inspector raised scornful eyebrows dispassionately.

“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.”

“What do you get from him in exchange for your protection?”

The Chief Inspector was not inclined to enlarge on the value of Mr Verloc’s services.

“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.”

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.

“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.”

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.”

The Assistant Commissioner made a significant remark.

“He failed you this time.”

“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.”

“No,” muttered the Assistant Commissioner.“He’s a spy in the pay of a foreign government.We could never confess to him.”

“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.”

“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?”

“Who—Verloc?Oh yes.He lives over his shop.The wife’s mother, I fancy, lives with them.”

“Is the house watched?”

“Oh dear, no.It wouldn’t do.Certain people who come there are watched.My opinion is that he knows nothing of this affair.”

“How do you account for this?”The Assistant Commissioner nodded at the cloth rag lying before him on the table.

“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.”

“You do?”

“Yes, sir; because I can answer for all the others.”

“What about that other man supposed to have escaped from the park?”

“I should think he’s far away by this time,” opined the Chief Inspector.

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.

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.

CHAPTER VII

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.

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.

“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.”

“It’s in connection with that Greenwich affair.”

“Oh!I say!He’s very bitter against you people.But I will go and see, if you insist.”

“Do.That’s a good fellow,” said the Assistant Commissioner.

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.

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.

He stood on the hearthrug in big, roomy boots, and uttered no word of greeting.

“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.”

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.

“No.As far as one can be positive about anything I can assure you that it is not.”

“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.”

The Assistant Commissioner glanced in the direction of the window calmly.

“You will allow me to remark, Sir Ethelred, that so far I have had no opportunity to give you assurances of any kind.”

The haughty droop of the eyes was focussed now upon the Assistant Commissioner.

“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?”

“I believe I am learning something every day.”

“Of course, of course.I hope you will get on.”

“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.”

The great man put his arms akimbo, the backs of his big hands resting on his hips.

“Very well.Go on.Only no details, pray.Spare me the details.”

“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.

“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.”

The tone of Sir Ethelred was deepened, full of conviction.

“I should think so—involving the Ambassador of a foreign power!”

“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.”

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.

“No!These people are too impossible.What do they mean by importing their methods of Crim-Tartary here?A Turk would have more decency.”

“You forget, Sir Ethelred, that strictly speaking we know nothing positively—as yet.”

“No!But how would you define it?Shortly?”

“Barefaced audacity amounting to childishness of a peculiar sort.”

“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.”

“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—”

The deep-voiced Presence on the hearthrug, motionless, with big elbows stuck out, said hastily:

“Be lucid, please.”

“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.”

“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.”

The Assistant Commissioner had an amused smile.

“I was really thinking that it might be better at this stage for Heat to be replaced by—”

“What!Heat?An ass—eh?”exclaimed the great man, with distinct animosity.

“Not at all.Pray, Sir Ethelred, don’t put that unjust interpretation on my remarks.”

“Then what?Too clever by half?”

“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.”

“Yes.But what do you mean?”

“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.”

The Personage on the hearthrug had been listening with profound attention.

“Just so.Be as concise as you can.”

The Assistant Commissioner intimated by an earnest deferential gesture that he was anxious to be concise.

“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.”

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.

“Why not leave it to Heat?”

“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.”

“He would, would he?”muttered the proud head of Sir Ethelred from its lofty elevation.

“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.”

“Certainly,” said the Personage on the hearthrug.“Find out as much as you can; find it out in your own way.”

“I must set about it without loss of time, this very evening,” said the Assistant Commissioner.

Sir Ethelred shifted one hand under his coat tails, and tilting back his head, looked at him steadily.

“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.”

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.

The Assistant Commissioner was surprised and gratified extremely.

“I shall certainly bring my discoveries to the House on the chance of you having the time to—”

“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?”

“Yes, Sir Ethelred.I think it the best way.”

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.

“H’m.Ha!And how do you propose—Will you assume a disguise?”

“Hardly a disguise!I’ll change my clothes, of course.”

“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.

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.

“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?”

“I have been always of opinion,” began the Assistant Commissioner.

“Ah.Yes!Opinion.That’s of course.But the immediate motive?”

“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.”

“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.

In the outer room Toodles, who had been waiting perched on the edge of a table, advanced to meet him, subduing his natural buoyancy.

“Well?Satisfactory?”he asked, with airy importance.

“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.

“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—”

“I read the papers,” remarked the Assistant Commissioner.

“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.”

“And yet he’s given a whole half hour to the consideration of my very small sprat,” interjected the Assistant Commissioner.

“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.”

“Not to mention yourself.He leans on your arm,” suggested the Assistant Commissioner soberly.“You would both go.”

“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—”

“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.”

The sympathetic Toodles welcomed this opening for a chuckle.

“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.”

“If he will insist on beginning a revolution!”murmured the Assistant Commissioner.

“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.

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.

“Chief Inspector Heat gone yet?”

“Yes, sir.Went away half-an-hour ago.”

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.

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.

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.

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.

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—”

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

CHAPTER VIII

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.

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.

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.

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.

“Whatever did you want to do that for?”she exclaimed, in scandalised astonishment.

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.

“Weren’t you made comfortable enough here?”

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.

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.

“How in the world did you manage it, mother?”

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.

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.”

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.

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.

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.”

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.

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—

The police constable of the locality quieted him by a friendly glance; then addressing himself to the two women without marked consideration, said:

“He’s been driving a cab for twenty years.I never knew him to have an accident.”

“Accident!”shouted the driver in a scornful whisper.

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.

At last Winnie observed: “This isn’t a very good horse.”

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.”

The driver, holding high the reins twisted around the hook, took no notice.Perhaps he had not heard.Stevie’s breast heaved.

“Don’t whip.”

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.

“You mustn’t,” stammered out Stevie violently.“It hurts.”

“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?”

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.

“Stevie!Get up on the box directly, and don’t try to get down again.”

“No.No.Walk.Must walk.”

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.”

“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.”

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.

The cabby turned at him his enormous and inflamed countenance truculently.“Don’t you go for trying this silly game again, young fellow.”

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.

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.

“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?”

“My dear,” screamed the old woman earnestly above the noise, “you’ve been the best of daughters to me.As to Mr Verloc—there—”

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

“I know, my dear, you’ll come to see me as often as you can spare the time.Won’t you?”

“Of course,” answered Winnie shortly, staring straight before her.

And the cab jolted in front of a steamy, greasy shop in a blaze of gas and in the smell of fried fish.

The old woman raised a wail again.

“And, my dear, I must see that poor boy every Sunday.He won’t mind spending the day with his old mother—”

Winnie screamed out stolidly:

“Mind!I should think not.That poor boy will miss you something cruel.I wish you had thought a little of that, mother.”

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:

“I expect I’ll have a job with him at first, he’ll be that restless—”

“Whatever you do, don’t let him worry your husband, my dear.”

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.

Winnie stared forward.

“Don’t you upset yourself like this, mother.You must see him, of course.”

“No, my dear.I’ll try not to.”

She mopped her streaming eyes.

“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—”

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.

“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.”

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:

“Here you are!”

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.

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.

The cabman, pausing in his deliberate movements, seemed struck by some misty recollection.

“Oh!’Ere you are, young fellow,” he whispered.“You’ll know him again—won’t you?”

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.

The cabman struck lightly Stevie’s breast with the iron hook protruding from a ragged, greasy sleeve.

“Look ’ere, young feller. ’Ow’d you like to sit behind this ’oss up to two o’clock in the morning p’raps?”

Stevie looked vacantly into the fierce little eyes with red-edged lids.

“He ain’t lame,” pursued the other, whispering with energy. “He ain’t got no sore places on ’im. ’Ere he is. ’Ow would you like—”

His strained, extinct voice invested his utterance with a character of vehement secrecy.Stevie’s vacant gaze was changing slowly into dread.

“You may well look!Till three and four o’clock in the morning.Cold and ’ungry.Looking for fares.Drunks.”

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.

“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.”

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.

The cabman grunted, then added in his mysterious whisper:

“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.

“Bad!Bad!”

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.

“’Ard on ’osses, but dam’ sight ’arder on poor chaps like me,” he wheezed just audibly.

“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.

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.

“Come on,” he whispered secretly.

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.

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.

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.

“Now, Stevie, you must look well after me at the crossings, and get first into the ’bus, like a good brother.”

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.

“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.

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:

“Poor brute!”

Hanging back suddenly, Stevie inflicted an arresting jerk upon his sister.

“Poor!Poor!”he ejaculated appreciatively.“Cabman poor too.He told me himself.”

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!

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:

“Come along, Stevie.You can’t help that.”

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.

“Bad world for poor people.”

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.

“Beastly!”he added concisely.

It was clear to Mrs Verloc that he was greatly excited.

“Nobody can help that,” she said.“Do come along.Is that the way you’re taking care of me?”

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.

“Police,” he suggested confidently.

“The police aren’t for that,” observed Mrs Verloc cursorily, hurrying on her way.

Stevie’s face lengthened considerably.He was thinking.The more intense his thinking, the slacker was the droop of his lower jaw.

And it was with an aspect of hopeless vacancy that he gave up his intellectual enterprise.

“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.

“What for are they then, Winn?What are they for?Tell me.”

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.

“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.”

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.

“What?”he asked at once anxiously.“Not even if they were hungry?Mustn’t they?”

The two had paused in their walk.

“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.”

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:

“Quick, Stevie.Stop that green ’bus.”

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.

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 good. 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 goodAnd the grief of a good man is august.

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.

“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.

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.

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:

“You’ll catch cold walking about in your socks like this.”

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.

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:

“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.”

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:

“Perhaps it’s just as well.”

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.

“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.”

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.

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.

“I am going on the Continent to-morrow.”

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.

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.”

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.

Mrs Verloc, full of deep purpose, spoke in the tone of the shallowest indifference.

“There is no need to have the woman here all day.I shall do very well with Stevie.”

She let the lonely clock on the landing count off fifteen ticks into the abyss of eternity, and asked:

“Shall I put the light out?”

Mr Verloc snapped at his wife huskily.

“Put it out.”

CHAPTER IX

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.

“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.

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.”

Winnie came no farther than the inner shop door.

“You’ll want some breakfast,” she said from a distance.

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.

“It’s all along of mother leaving us like this.”

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.

“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.”

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.

“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—”

She paused attentive, her ear turned towards the door of the kitchen.

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.

In the parlour Mrs Verloc observed, with knowledge:

“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.”

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 via dolorosa 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.”

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:

“I wish you would take that boy out with you, Adolf.”

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.

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.

“He’ll lose sight of me perhaps, and get lost in the street,” he said.

Mrs Verloc shook her head competently.

“He won’t.You don’t know him.That boy just worships you.But if you should miss him—”

Mrs Verloc paused for a moment, but only for a moment.

“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.”

This optimism procured for Mr Verloc his fourth surprise of the day.

“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.

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.

“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.

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.

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.

“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.”

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.

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.

“You too seem to have grown quite fond of him of late,” she added, after a pause, with her inflexible assurance.

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.

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.

“Goodness me!You needn’t be offended.You know you do get yourself very untidy when you get a chance, Stevie.”

Mr Verloc was already gone some way down the street.

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.

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:

“What a wretched day.You’ve been perhaps to see Stevie?”

“No!I haven’t,” said Mr Verloc softly, and slammed the glazed parlour door behind him with unexpected energy.

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.

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.

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.

“You’ve been getting wet,” she said.

“Not very,” Mr Verloc managed to falter out, in a profound shudder.By a great effort he suppressed the rattling of his teeth.

“I’ll have you laid up on my hands,” she said, with genuine uneasiness.

“I don’t think so,” remarked Mr Verloc, snuffling huskily.

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.

“Where have you been to-day?”she asked.

“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.”

Mrs Verloc became attentive.

“You have!”she said dispassionately.“What for?”

Mr Verloc mumbled, with his nose over the grate, and with marked unwillingness.

“Draw the money out!”

“What do you mean?All of it?”

“Yes.All of it.”

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.

“What did you do that for?”

“May want it soon,” snuffled vaguely Mr Verloc, who was coming to the end of his calculated indiscretions.

“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.

“You know you can trust me,” Mr Verloc remarked to the grate, with hoarse feeling.

Mrs Verloc turned slowly towards the cupboard, saying with deliberation:

“Oh yes.I can trust you.”

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.

“If I hadn’t trusted you I wouldn’t have married you.”

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:

“Adolf.”

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.

“You should feed your cold,” Mrs Verloc said dogmatically.

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:

“Aren’t your feet wet?You had better put on your slippers.You aren’t going out any more this evening.”

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.

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:

“The idea!”

Mr Verloc declared himself sick and tired of everything, and besides—She interrupted him.

“You’ve a bad cold.”

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.

“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.”

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:

“And you are not tired of me.”

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.

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.

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.

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:

“If you go abroad you’ll have to go without me.”

“You know I wouldn’t,” said Mr Verloc huskily, and the unresonant voice of his private life trembled with an enigmatical emotion.

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.

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:

“You couldn’t.You would miss me too much.”

Mr Verloc started forward.

“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.

“Shop, Adolf.You go.”

He stopped, his arms came down slowly.

“You go,” repeated Mrs Verloc.“I’ve got my apron on.”

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.

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.

At that precise moment Mr Verloc entered from the shop.

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.

“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.

“I find I’ll have to go out this evening,” said Mr Verloc.He did not attempt to pick up his outer garment.

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.

Mrs Verloc looked at him placidly.

“You came over from the Continent?”she said after a time.

The long, thin stranger, without exactly looking at Mrs Verloc, answered only by a faint and peculiar smile.

Mrs Verloc’s steady, incurious gaze rested on him.

“You understand English, don’t you?”

“Oh yes.I understand English.”

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:

“You don’t think perhaps of staying in England for good?”

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.

“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.”

“A good idea,” said the thin, dark man, whose glance had hardened suddenly.

“You knew Mr Verloc before—didn’t you?Perhaps in France?”

“I have heard of him,” admitted the visitor in his slow, painstaking tone, which yet had a certain curtness of intention.

There was a pause.Then he spoke again, in a far less elaborate manner.

“Your husband has not gone out to wait for me in the street by chance?”

“In the street!”repeated Mrs Verloc, surprised.“He couldn’t.There’s no other door to the house.”

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.

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:

“Do you know that man?”she asked rapidly.

“I’ve heard of him,” whispered uneasily Mr Verloc, darting a wild glance at the door.

Mrs Verloc’s fine, incurious eyes lighted up with a flash of abhorrence.

“One of Karl Yundt’s friends—beastly old man.”

“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.

“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?”

“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?”

“Yourself.”

“I!I!Talked of the Embassy to you!”

Mr Verloc seemed scared and bewildered beyond measure.His wife explained:

“You’ve been talking a little in your sleep of late, Adolf.”

“What—what did I say?What do you know?”

“Nothing much.It seemed mostly nonsense.Enough to let me guess that something worried you.”

Mr Verloc rammed his hat on his head.A crimson flood of anger ran over his face.

“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.”

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.

“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.”

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:

“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—”

Mr Verloc gazed stupidly into the palm of his wife’s extended hand for some time before he slapped his brow.

“Money!Yes!Yes!I didn’t know what you meant.”

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.

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.

He approached, on his side, confidentially, but not too markedly so.

“Husband at home, Mrs Verloc?”he asked in an easy, full tone.

“No.He’s gone out.”

“I am sorry for that.I’ve called to get from him a little private information.”

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.

“I would wait for him a little if I were sure he wouldn’t be long,” he said.

Mrs Verloc volunteered no assurance of any kind.

“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?”

Mrs Verloc shook her head.

“Can’t say.”

She turned away to range some boxes on the shelves behind the counter.Chief Inspector Heat looked at her thoughtfully for a time.

“I suppose you know who I am?”he said.

Mrs Verloc glanced over her shoulder.Chief Inspector Heat was amazed at her coolness.

“Come!You know I am in the police,” he said sharply.

“I don’t trouble my head much about it,” Mrs Verloc remarked, returning to the ranging of her boxes.

“My name is Heat.Chief Inspector Heat of the Special Crimes section.”

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.

“So your husband went out a quarter of an hour ago!And he didn’t say when he would be back?”

“He didn’t go out alone,” Mrs Verloc let fall negligently.

“A friend?”

Mrs Verloc touched the back of her hair.It was in perfect order.

“A stranger who called.”

“I see.What sort of man was that stranger?Would you mind telling me?”

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:

“Dash me if I didn’t think so!He hasn’t lost any time.”

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.

“I am afraid I haven’t time to wait for your husband,” he said.

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.

“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.”

Forcing her fine, inert eyes to return his gaze, Mrs Verloc murmured:

“Going on! What is going on?”

“Why, the affair I came to talk about a little with your husband.”

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.

Chief Inspector Heat did not believe for a moment in so much ignorance.Curtly, without amiability, he stated the bare fact.

Mrs Verloc turned away her eyes.

“I call it silly,” she pronounced slowly.She paused.“We ain’t downtrodden slaves here.”

The Chief Inspector waited watchfully.Nothing more came.

“And your husband didn’t mention anything to you when he came home?”

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.

“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.”

Mrs Verloc, with her mind specially aware of thieves that evening, touched lightly the bosom of her dress.

“We have lost no overcoat,” she said calmly.

“That’s funny,” continued Private Citizen Heat.“I see you keep a lot of marking ink here—”

He took up a small bottle, and looked at it against the gas-jet in the middle of the shop.

“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.”

Mrs Verloc leaned over the counter with a low exclamation.

“That’s my brother’s, then.”

“Where’s your brother?Can I see him?”asked the Chief Inspector briskly.Mrs Verloc leaned a little more over the counter.

“No.He isn’t here.I wrote that label myself.”

“Where’s your brother now?”

“He’s been away living with—a friend—in the country.”

“The overcoat comes from the country.And what’s the name of the friend?”

“Michaelis,” confessed Mrs Verloc in an awed whisper.

The Chief Inspector let out a whistle.His eyes snapped.

“Just so.Capital.And your brother now, what’s he like—a sturdy, darkish chap—eh?”

“Oh no,” exclaimed Mrs Verloc fervently.“That must be the thief.Stevie’s slight and fair.”

“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.

“Easily excitable?”he suggested.

“Oh yes.He is.But how did he come to lose his coat—”

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.

“I suppose you recognise this?”

She took it mechanically in both her hands.Her eyes seemed to grow bigger as she looked.

“Yes,” she whispered, then raised her head, and staggered backward a little.

“Whatever for is it torn out like this?”

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.”

“Mrs Verloc,” he said, “it strikes me that you know more of this bomb affair than even you yourself are aware of.”

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.

Mr Verloc, without looking at his wife, walked up to the Chief Inspector, who was relieved to see him return alone.

“You here!”muttered Mr Verloc heavily.“Who are you after?”

“No one,” said Chief Inspector Heat in a low tone.“Look here, I would like a word or two with you.”

Mr Verloc, still pale, had brought an air of resolution with him.Still he didn’t look at his wife.He said:

“Come in here, then.”And he led the way into the parlour.

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.

“You are the other man, Verloc.Two men were seen entering the park.”

And the voice of Mr Verloc said:

“Well, take me now.What’s to prevent you?You have the right.”

“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.”

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.

“I never noticed that she had hit upon that dodge.”

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.

“You must have been mad.”

And Mr Verloc’s voice answered, with a sort of gloomy fury:

“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.”

There was a silence, and then Private Citizen Heat murmured:

“What’s coming out?”

“Everything,” exclaimed the voice of Mr Verloc, and then sank very low.

After a while it rose again.

“You have known me for several years now, and you’ve found me useful, too.You know I was a straight man.Yes, straight.”

This appeal to old acquaintance must have been extremely distasteful to the Chief Inspector.

His voice took on a warning note.

“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.”

Mr Verloc was heard to laugh a little.

“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.”

“Let it come out, then,” the indifferent voice of Chief Inspector Heat assented.“But tell me now how did you get away.”

“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.”

“So easy as that!”marvelled the voice of Chief Inspector Heat.“The bang startled you, eh?”

“Yes; it came too soon,” confessed the gloomy, husky voice of Mr Verloc.

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.

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:

“We believe he stumbled against the root of a tree?”

There was a husky, voluble murmur, which lasted for some time, and then the Chief Inspector, as if answering some inquiry, spoke emphatically.

“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.”

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:

“So your defence will be practically a full confession?”

“It will.I am going to tell the whole story.”

“You won’t be believed as much as you fancy you will.”

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.

“Perhaps not.But it will upset many things.I have been a straight man, and I shall keep straight in this—”

“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.”

Mr Verloc listened, frowning.

“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.”

“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.

“That’s the impression about you.”The Chief Inspector nodded at him.“Vanish.Clear out.”

“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.”

“I daresay,” assented sardonically the Chief Inspector, following the direction of his glance.

The brow of Mr Verloc broke into slight moisture.He lowered his husky voice confidentially before the unmoved Chief Inspector.

“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—”

The Chief Inspector, his hand on the door handle, whispered into Mr Verloc’s face.

“He may’ve been half-witted, but you must have been crazy.What drove you off your head like this?”

Mr Verloc, thinking of Mr Vladimir, did not hesitate in the choice of words.

“A Hyperborean swine,” he hissed forcibly.“A what you might call a—a gentleman.”

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.

CHAPTER X

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 the House, par excellence in the minds of many millions of men, he was met at last by the volatile and revolutionary Toodles.

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.

“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.”

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:

“And your sprat?”

“Got him,” answered the Assistant Commissioner with a concision which did not mean to be repellent in the least.

“Good.You’ve no idea how these great men dislike to be disappointed in small things.”

After this profound observation the experienced Toodles seemed to reflect.At any rate he said nothing for quite two seconds.Then:

“I’m glad.But—I say—is it really such a very small thing as you make it out?”

“Do you know what may be done with a sprat?”the Assistant Commissioner asked in his turn.

“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—”

The Assistant Commissioner interrupted the apprentice statesman.

“Yes.Yes.But a sprat is also thrown away sometimes in order to catch a whale.”

“A whale.Phew!”exclaimed Toodles, with bated breath.“You’re after a whale, then?”

“Not exactly.What I am after is more like a dog-fish.You don’t know perhaps what a dog-fish is like.”

“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.”

“Described to a T,” commended the Assistant Commissioner.“Only mine is clean-shaven altogether.You’ve seen him.It’s a witty fish.”

“I have seen him!”said Toodles incredulously.“I can’t conceive where I could have seen him.”

“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.

“Nonsense,” he protested, but in an awe-struck tone.“What do you mean?A member?”

“Honorary,” muttered the Assistant Commissioner through his teeth.

“Heavens!”

Toodles looked so thunderstruck that the Assistant Commissioner smiled faintly.

“That’s between ourselves strictly,” he said.

“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.

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.

He stood aside.

“Go in without knocking,” he said.

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.

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.

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.

“Well!What is it that you’ve found out already?You came upon something unexpected on the first step.”

“Not exactly unexpected, Sir Ethelred.What I mainly came upon was a psychological state.”

The Great Presence made a slight movement.“You must be lucid, please.”

“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.”

“What then have you learned?”asked the great man.

“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.”

“You are positive as to that?”asked the great man.

“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.”

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:

“All this seems very fantastic.”

“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—”

“How long were you with him,” interrupted the Presence from behind his big hand.

“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.”

The Assistant Commissioner paused in his speculations to reflect for a moment.

“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 good), 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.”

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.

“What have you done with him?”

The Assistant Commissioner answered very readily:

“As he seemed very anxious to get back to his wife in the shop I let him go, Sir Ethelred.”

“You did?But the fellow will disappear.”

“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.”

The great personage rose heavily, an imposing shadowy form in the greenish gloom of the room.

“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?”

The Assistant Commissioner had stood up also, slender and flexible.

“I think not, Sir Ethelred, unless I were to enter into details which—”

“No.No details, please.”

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?”

“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.”

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.

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.

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.

“I never hoped to see you here to-night.Annie told me—”

“Yes.I had no idea myself that my work would be over so soon.”

The Assistant Commissioner added in a low tone: “I am glad to tell you that Michaelis is altogether clear of this—”

The patroness of the ex-convict received this assurance indignantly.

“Why?Were your people stupid enough to connect him with—”

“Not stupid,” interrupted the Assistant Commissioner, contradicting deferentially.“Clever enough—quite clever enough for that.”

A silence fell.The man at the foot of the couch had stopped speaking to the lady, and looked on with a faint smile.

“I don’t know whether you ever met before,” said the great lady.

Mr Vladimir and the Assistant Commissioner, introduced, acknowledged each other’s existence with punctilious and guarded courtesy.

“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.

“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.

“Well, he tried to at least,” amended the lady.

“Force of habit perhaps,” said the Assistant Commissioner, moved by an irresistible inspiration.

“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.”

Mr Vladimir, affecting not to listen, leaned towards the couch, talking amiably in subdued tones, but he heard the Assistant Commissioner say:

“I’ve no doubt that Mr Vladimir has a very precise notion of the true importance of this affair.”

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.

“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.”

When Mr Vladimir ceased speaking the Assistant Commissioner lowered his glance, and the conversation dropped.Almost immediately afterwards Mr Vladimir took leave.

Directly his back was turned on the couch the Assistant Commissioner rose too.

“I thought you were going to stay and take Annie home,” said the lady patroness of Michaelis.

“I find that I’ve yet a little work to do to-night.”

“In connection—?”

“Well, yes—in a way.”

“Tell me, what is it really—this horror?”

“It’s difficult to say what it is, but it may yet be a cause célèbre,” said the Assistant Commissioner.

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.

When at last he got out of the house, he saw with disgust the “confounded policeman” still standing on the pavement.

“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.

“Rotten weather,” he growled savagely.

“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.

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.

Mr Vladimir stopped, and became guttural.“What makes you say that?”

“I don’t.It’s Verloc who says that.”

“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.

“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.”

Mr Vladimir stopped again for a moment.

“What do you mean?”

“The prosecution of this Verloc will demonstrate to the public both the danger and the indecency.”

“Nobody will believe what a man of that sort says,” said Mr Vladimir contemptuously.

“The wealth and precision of detail will carry conviction to the great mass of the public,” advanced the Assistant Commissioner gently.

“So that is seriously what you mean to do.”

“We’ve got the man; we have no choice.”

“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?”

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:

“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.”

Mr Vladimir’s tone became lofty.

“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.”

“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.”

“So this instructive crime was planned abroad,” Mr Vladimir said quickly.“You admit it was planned abroad?”

“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.”

“I’m sure I’m very grateful,” muttered Mr Vladimir through his teeth.

“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.”

Mr Vladimir held up his hand to a passing hansom.

“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.

But Mr Vladimir, sitting, stony-eyed, inside the hansom, drove off without a word.

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.

CHAPTER XI

After Chief Inspector Heat had left him Mr Verloc moved about the parlour.

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.

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!

“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.

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:

“I didn’t mean any harm to come to the boy.”

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.

“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.”

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:

“I didn’t feel particularly gay sitting there and thinking of you.”

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.

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.

“I am taking this young fellow home for a day or two.”

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.

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.

“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.”

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.

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.

“You might look at a fellow,” he observed after waiting a while.

As if forced through the hands covering Mrs Verloc’s face the answer came, deadened, almost pitiful.

“I don’t want to look at you as long as I live.”

“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.

“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.

“Do be reasonable, Winnie.What would it have been if you had lost me!”

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:

“Don’t be a fool, Winnie.”

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

“You don’t know what a brute I had to deal with.”

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.

“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.

“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!”

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.

“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.”

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.”

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:

“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—”

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:

“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?”

He blinked at his wife knowingly.

“No,” said Mrs Verloc in an unresonant voice, and without looking at him at all.“What are you talking about?”

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.

“You’ll have to pull yourself together, my girl,” he said sympathetically.“What’s done can’t be undone.”

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.

“You go to bed now.What you want is a good cry.”

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.

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.

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.

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.

“Might have been father and son.”

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:

“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?”

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.

“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!”

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.

“Nothing on earth can stop me now,” he added, and paused, looking fixedly at his wife, who was looking fixedly at a blank wall.

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.

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.

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!”

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. . . .

Through her set teeth Mrs Verloc muttered at the wall:

“And I thought he had caught a cold.”

Mr Verloc heard these words and appropriated them.

“It was nothing,” he said moodily.“I was upset.I was upset on your account.”

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.

“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.”

“I couldn’t,” breathed out Mrs Verloc.It was as if a corpse had spoken.Mr Verloc took up the thread of his discourse.

“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.”

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.

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.

He looked straight into his wife’s eyes.The enlarged pupils of the woman received his stare into their unfathomable depths.

“I am too fond of you for that,” he said, with a little nervous laugh.

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.

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—

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.

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.

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.

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?”

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.

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.

“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.

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.

“Where are you going to?”he called out rather sharply.“Upstairs?”

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.

“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.”

Mrs Verloc, the free woman who had had really no idea where she was going to, obeyed the suggestion with rigid steadiness.

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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:

“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.”

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.”

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.

“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.

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.

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.