agreeable and entertaining man. He was something of a favourite in
society. His wit consisted in discovering droll connections
between incongruous ideas; and when talking in that strain he sat
well forward of his seat, with his left hand raised, as if
exhibiting his funny demonstrations between the thumb and
forefinger, while his round and clean-shaven face wore an
expression of merry perplexity.
But there was no trace of merriment or perplexity in the way he
looked at Mr Verloc. Lying far back in the deep arm-chair, with
squarely spread elbows, and throwing one leg over a thick knee, he
had with his smooth and rosy countenance the air of a
preternaturally thriving baby that will not stand nonsense from
anybody.
“You understand French, I suppose?” he said.
Mr Verloc stated huskily that he did. His whole vast bulk had a
forward inclination. He stood on the carpet in the middle of the
room, clutching his hat and stick in one hand; the other hung
lifelessly by his side. He muttered unobtrusively somewhere deep
down in his throat something about having done his military service
in the French artillery. At once, with contemptuous perversity, Mr
Vladimir changed the language, and began to speak idiomatic English
without the slightest trace of a foreign accent.
“Ah! Yes. Of course. Let’s see. How much did you get for
obtaining the design of the improved breech-block of their new
field-gun?”
“Five years’ rigorous confinement in a fortress,” Mr Verloc
answered unexpectedly, but without any sign of feeling.
“You got off easily,” was Mr Vladimir’s comment. “And, anyhow, it
served you right for letting yourself get caught. What made you go
in for that sort of thing – eh?”
Mr Verloc’s husky conversational voice was heard speaking of youth,
of a fatal infatuation for an unworthy –
“Aha! Cherchez la femme,” Mr Vladimir deigned to interrupt,
unbending, but without affability; there was, on the contrary, a
touch of grimness in his condescension. “How long have you been
employed by the Embassy here?” he asked.
“Ever since the time of the late Baron Stott-Wartenheim,” Mr Verloc
answered in subdued tones, and protruding his lips sadly, in sign
of sorrow for the deceased diplomat. The First Secretary observed
this play of physiognomy steadily.
“Ah! ever since. Well! What have you got to say for yourself?” he
asked sharply.
Mr Verloc answered with some surprise that he was not aware of
having anything special to say. He had been summoned by a letter –
And he plunged his hand busily into the side pocket of his
overcoat, but before the mocking, cynical watchfulness of Mr
Vladimir, concluded to leave it there.
“Bah!” said that latter. “What do you mean by getting out of
condition like this? You haven’t got even the physique of your
profession. You – a member of a starving proletariat – never! You
– a desperate socialist or anarchist – which is it?”
“Anarchist,” stated Mr Verloc in a deadened tone.
“Bosh!” went on Mr Vladimir, without raising his voice. “You
startled old Wurmt himself. You wouldn’t deceive an idiot. They
all are that by-the-by, but you seem to me simply impossible. So
you began your connection with us by stealing the French gun
designs. And you got yourself caught. That must have been very
disagreeable to our Government. You don’t seem to be very smart.”
Mr Verloc tried to exculpate himself huskily.
“As I’ve had occasion to observe before, a fatal infatuation for an
unworthy – ”
Mr Vladimir raised a large white, plump hand. “Ah, yes. The
unlucky attachment – of your youth. She got hold of the money, and
then sold you to the police – eh?”
The doleful change in Mr Verloc’s physiognomy, the momentary
drooping of his whole person, confessed that such was the
regrettable case. Mr Vladimir’s hand clasped the ankle reposing on
his knee. The sock was of dark blue silk.
“You see, that was not very clever of you. Perhaps you are too
susceptible.”
Mr Verloc intimated in a throaty, veiled murmur that he was no
longer young.
“Oh! That’s a failing which age does not cure,” Mr Vladimir
remarked, with sinister familiarity. “But no! You are too fat for