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