saw before him was a term of imprisonment, an early release and
then life abroad somewhere, such as he had contemplated already, in
case of failure. Well, it was a failure, if not exactly the sort
of failure he had feared. It had been so near success that he
could have positively terrified Mr Vladimir out of his ferocious
scoffing with this proof of occult efficiency. So at least it
seemed now to Mr Verloc. His prestige with the Embassy would have
been immense if – if his wife had not had the unlucky notion of
sewing on the address inside Stevie’s overcoat. Mr Verloc, who was
no fool, had soon perceived the extraordinary character of the
influence he had over Stevie, though he did not understand exactly
its origin – the doctrine of his supreme wisdom and goodness
inculcated by two anxious women. In all the eventualities he had
foreseen Mr Verloc had calculated with correct insight on Stevie’s
instinctive loyalty and blind discretion. The eventuality he had
not foreseen had appalled him as a humane man and a fond husband.
From every other point of view it was rather advantageous. Nothing
can equal the everlasting discretion of death. Mr Verloc, sitting
perplexed and frightened in the small parlour of the Cheshire
Cheese, could not help acknowledging that to himself, because his
sensibility did not stand in the way of his judgment. Stevie’s
violent disintegration, however disturbing to think about, only
assured the success; for, of course, the knocking down of a wall
was not the aim of Mr Vladimir’s menaces, but the production of a
moral effect. With much trouble and distress on Mr Verloc’s part
the effect might be said to have been produced. When, however,
most unexpectedly, it came home to roost in Brett Street, Mr
Verloc, who had been struggling like a man in a nightmare for the
preservation of his position, accepted the blow in the spirit of a
convinced fatalist. The position was gone through no one’s fault
really. A small, tiny fact had done it. It was like slipping on a
bit of orange peel in the dark and breaking your leg.
Mr Verloc drew a weary breath. He nourished no resentment against
his wife. He thought: She will have to look after the shop while
they keep me locked up. And thinking also how cruelly she would
miss Stevie at first, he felt greatly concerned about her health
and spirits. How would she stand her solitude – absolutely alone
in that house? It would not do for her to break down while he was
locked up? What would become of the shop then? The shop was an
asset. Though Mr Verloc’s fatalism accepted his undoing as a
secret agent, he had no mind to be utterly ruined, mostly, it must
be owned, from regard for his wife.
Silent, and out of his line of sight in the kitchen, she frightened
him. If only she had had her mother with her. But that silly old
woman – An angry dismay possessed Mr Verloc. He must talk with his
wife. He could tell her certainly that a man does get desperate
under certain circumstances. But he did not go incontinently to
impart to her that information. First of all, it was clear to him
that this evening was no time for business. He got up to close the
street door and put the gas out in the shop.
Having thus assured a solitude around his hearthstone Mr Verloc
walked into the parlour, and glanced down into the kitchen. Mrs
Verloc was sitting in the place where poor Stevie usually
established himself of an evening with paper and pencil for the
pastime of drawing these coruscations of innumerable circles
suggesting chaos and eternity. Her arms were folded on the table,
and her head was lying on her arms. Mr Verloc contemplated her
back and the arrangement of her hair for a time, then walked away
from the kitchen door. Mrs Verloc’s philosophical, almost
disdainful incuriosity, the foundation of their accord in domestic
life made it extremely difficult to get into contact with her, now
this tragic necessity had arisen. Mr Verloc felt this difficulty
acutely. He turned around the table in the parlour with his usual