The Secret Agent by Joseph Conrad

released a catch in order to speak.

“Look here! Do you know whether your – whether he kept his account

at the bank in his own name or in some other name.”

Mrs Verloc turned upon him her masked face and the big white gleam

of her eyes.

“Other name?” she said thoughtfully.

“Be exact in what you say,” Ossipon lectured in the swift motion of

the hansom. “It’s extremely important. I will explain to you.

The bank has the numbers of these notes. If they were paid to him

in his own name, then when his – his death becomes known, the notes

may serve to track us since we have no other money. You have no

other money on you?”

She shook her head negatively.

“None whatever?” he insisted.

“A few coppers.”

“It would be dangerous in that case. The money would have then to

be dealt specially with. Very specially. We’d have perhaps to

lose more than half the amount in order to get these notes changed

in a certain safe place I know of in Paris. In the other case I

mean if he had his account and got paid out under some other name –

say Smith, for instance – the money is perfectly safe to use. You

understand? The bank has no means of knowing that Mr Verloc and,

say, Smith are one and the same person. Do you see how important

it is that you should make no mistake in answering me? Can you

answer that query at all? Perhaps not. Eh?”

She said composedly:

“I remember now! He didn’t bank in his own name. He told me once

that it was on deposit in the name of Prozor.”

“You are sure?”

“Certain.”

“You don’t think the bank had any knowledge of his real name? Or

anybody in the bank or – ”

She shrugged her shoulders.

“How can I know? Is it likely, Tom?

“No. I suppose it’s not likely. It would have been more

comfortable to know. . . . Here we are. Get out first, and walk

straight in. Move smartly.”

He remained behind, and paid the cabman out of his own loose

silver. The programme traced by his minute foresight was carried

out. When Mrs Verloc, with her ticket for St Malo in her hand,

entered the ladies’ waiting-room, Comrade Ossipon walked into the

bar, and in seven minutes absorbed three goes of hot brandy and

water.

“Trying to drive out a cold,” he explained to the barmaid, with a

friendly nod and a grimacing smile. Then he came out, bringing out

from that festive interlude the face of a man who had drunk at the

very Fountain of Sorrow. He raised his eyes to the clock. It was

time. He waited.

Punctual, Mrs Verloc came out, with her veil down, and all black –

black as commonplace death itself, crowned with a few cheap and

pale flowers. She passed close to a little group of men who were

laughing, but whose laughter could have been struck dead by a

single word. Her walk was indolent, but her back was straight, and

Comrade Ossipon looked after it in terror before making a start

himself.

The train was drawn up, with hardly anybody about its row of open

doors. Owing to the time of the year and to the abominable weather

there were hardly any passengers. Mrs Verloc walked slowly along

the line of empty compartments till Ossipon touched her elbow from

behind.

“In here.”

She got in, and he remained on the platform looking about. She

bent forward, and in a whisper:

“What is it, Tom? Is there any danger? Wait a moment. There’s

the guard.”

She saw him accost the man in uniform. They talked for a while.

She heard the guard say “Very well, sir,” and saw him touch his

cap. Then Ossipon came back, saying: “I told him not to let

anybody get into our compartment.”

She was leaning forward on her seat. “You think of everything. . .

. You’ll get me off, Tom?” she asked in a gust of anguish, lifting

her veil brusquely to look at her saviour.

She had uncovered a face like adamant. And out of this face the

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