the boy’s address inside his overcoat was the last thing Mr Verloc
would have thought of. One can’t think of everything. That was
what she meant when she said that he need not worry if he lost
Stevie during their walks. She had assured him that the boy would
turn up all right. Well, he had turned up with a vengeance!
“Well, well,” muttered Mr Verloc in his wonder. What did she mean
by it? Spare him the trouble of keeping an anxious eye on Stevie?
Most likely she had meant well. Only she ought to have told him of
the precaution she had taken.
Mr Verloc walked behind the counter of the shop. His intention was
not to overwhelm his wife with bitter reproaches. Mr Verloc felt
no bitterness. The unexpected march of events had converted him to
the doctrine of fatalism. Nothing could be helped now. He said:
“I didn’t mean any harm to come to the boy.”
Mrs Verloc shuddered at the sound of her husband’s voice. She did
not uncover her face. The trusted secret agent of the late Baron
Stott-Wartenheim looked at her for a time with a heavy, persistent,
undiscerning glance. The torn evening paper was lying at her feet.
It could not have told her much. Mr Verloc felt the need of
talking to his wife.
“It’s that damned Heat – eh?” he said. “He upset you. He’s a
brute, blurting it out like this to a woman. I made myself ill
thinking how to break it to you. I sat for hours in the little
parlour of Cheshire Cheese thinking over the best way. You
understand I never meant any harm to come to that boy.”
Mr Verloc, the Secret Agent, was speaking the truth. It was his
marital affection that had received the greatest shock from the
premature explosion. He added:
“I didn’t feel particularly gay sitting there and thinking of you.”
He observed another slight shudder of his wife, which affected his
sensibility. As she persisted in hiding her face in her hands, he
thought he had better leave her alone for a while. On this
delicate impulse Mr Verloc withdrew into the parlour again, where
the gas jet purred like a contented cat. Mrs Verloc’s wifely
forethought had left the cold beef on the table with carving knife
and fork and half a loaf of bread for Mr Verloc’s supper. He
noticed all these things now for the first time, and cutting
himself a piece of bread and meat, began to eat.
His appetite did not proceed from callousness. Mr Verloc had not
eaten any breakfast that day. He had left his home fasting. Not
being an energetic man, he found his resolution in nervous
excitement, which seemed to hold him mainly by the throat. He
could not have swallowed anything solid. Michaelis’ cottage was as
destitute of provisions as the cell of a prisoner. The ticket-of-
leave apostle lived on a little milk and crusts of stale bread.
Moreover, when Mr Verloc arrived he had already gone upstairs after
his frugal meal. Absorbed in the toil and delight of literary
composition, he had not even answered Mr Verloc’s shout up the
little staircase.
“I am taking this young fellow home for a day or two.”
And, in truth, Mr Verloc did not wait for an answer, but had
marched out of the cottage at once, followed by the obedient
Stevie.
Now that all action was over and his fate taken out of his hands
with unexpected swiftness, Mr Verloc felt terribly empty
physically. He carved the meat, cut the bread, and devoured his
supper standing by the table, and now and then casting a glance
towards his wife. Her prolonged immobility disturbed the comfort
of his refection. He walked again into the shop, and came up very
close to her. This sorrow with a veiled face made Mr Verloc
uneasy. He expected, of course, his wife to be very much upset,
but he wanted her to pull herself together. He needed all her
assistance and all her loyalty in these new conjunctures his
fatalism had already accepted.
“Can’t be helped,” he said in a tone of gloomy sympathy. “Come,