that. You could not have come to look like this if you had been at
all susceptible. I’ll tell you what I think is the matter: you are
a lazy fellow. How long have you been drawing pay from this
Embassy?”
“Eleven years,” was the answer, after a moment of sulky hesitation.
“I’ve been charged with several missions to London while His
Excellency Baron Stott-Wartenheim was still Ambassador in Paris.
Then by his Excellency’s instructions I settled down in London. I
am English.”
“You are! Are you? Eh?”
“A natural-born British subject,” Mr Verloc said stolidly. “But my
father was French, and so – ”
“Never mind explaining,” interrupted the other. “I daresay you
could have been legally a Marshal of France and a Member of
Parliament in England – and then, indeed, you would have been of
some use to our Embassy.”
This flight of fancy provoked something like a faint smile on Mr
Verloc’s face. Mr Vladimir retained an imperturbable gravity.
“But, as I’ve said, you are a lazy fellow; you don’t use your
opportunities. In the time of Baron Stott-Wartenheim we had a lot
of soft-headed people running this Embassy. They caused fellows of
your sort to form a false conception of the nature of a secret
service fund. It is my business to correct this misapprehension by
telling you what the secret service is not. It is not a
philanthropic institution. I’ve had you called here on purpose to
tell you this.”
Mr Vladimir observed the forced expression of bewilderment on
Verloc’s face, and smiled sarcastically.
“I see that you understand me perfectly. I daresay you are
intelligent enough for your work. What we want now is activity –
activity.”
On repeating this last word Mr Vladimir laid a long white
forefinger on the edge of the desk. Every trace of huskiness
disappeared from Verloc’s voice. The nape of his gross neck became
crimson above the velvet collar of his overcoat. His lips quivered
before they came widely open.
“If you’ll only be good enough to look up my record,” he boomed out
in his great, clear oratorical bass, “you’ll see I gave a warning
only three months ago, on the occasion of the Grand Duke Romuald’s
visit to Paris, which was telegraphed from here to the French
police, and – ”
“Tut, tut!” broke out Mr Vladimir, with a frowning grimace. “The
French police had no use for your warning. Don’t roar like this.
What the devil do you mean?”
With a note of proud humility Mr Verloc apologised for forgetting
himself. His voice, – famous for years at open-air meetings and at
workmen’s assemblies in large halls, had contributed, he said, to
his reputation of a good and trustworthy comrade. It was,
therefore, a part of his usefulness. It had inspired confidence in
his principles. “I was always put up to speak by the leaders at a
critical moment,” Mr Verloc declared, with obvious satisfaction.
There was no uproar above which he could not make himself heard, he
added; and suddenly he made a demonstration.
“Allow me,” he said. With lowered forehead, without looking up,
swiftly and ponderously he crossed the room to one of the French
windows. As if giving way to an uncontrollable impulse, he opened
it a little. Mr Vladimir, jumping up amazed from the depths of the
arm-chair, looked over his shoulder; and below, across the
courtyard of the Embassy, well beyond the open gate, could be seen
the broad back of a policeman watching idly the gorgeous
perambulator of a wealthy baby being wheeled in state across the
Square.
“Constable!” said Mr Verloc, with no more effort than if he were
whispering; and Mr Vladimir burst into a laugh on seeing the
policeman spin round as if prodded by a sharp instrument. Mr
Verloc shut the window quietly, and returned to the middle of the
room.
“With a voice like that,” he said, putting on the husky
conversational pedal, “I was naturally trusted. And I knew what to
say, too.”
Mr Vladimir, arranging his cravat, observed him in the glass over
the mantelpiece.
“I daresay you have the social revolutionary jargon by heart well
enough,” he said contemptuously. “Vox et. . . You haven’t ever