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 an
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