ol-proof."

He beckoned to a waiter. Ossipon sat rigid, with the abstracted gaze of
mental travail. After the man had gone away with the money he roused
himself, with an air of profound dissatisfaction.

"It's extremely unpleasant for me," he mused. "Karl has been in bed with
bronchitis for a week. There's an even chance that he will never get up
again. Michaelis's luxuriating in the country somewhere. A fashionable
publisher has offered him five hundred pounds for a book. It will be a
ghastly failure. He has lost the habit of consecutive thinking in
prison, you know."

The Professor on his feet, now buttoning his coat, looked about him with
perfect indifference.

"What are you going to do?" asked Ossipon wearily. He dreaded the blame
of the Central Red Committee, a body which had no permanent place of
abode, and of whose membership he was not exactly informed. If this
affair eventuated in the stoppage of the modest subsidy allotted to the
publication of the F. P. pamphlets, then indeed he would have to regret
Verloc's inexplicable folly.

"Solidarity with the extremest form of action is one thing, and silly
recklessness is another," he said, with a sort of moody brutality. "I
don't know what came to Verloc. There's some mystery there. However,
he's gone. You may take it as you like, but under the circumstances the
only policy for the militant revolutionary group is to disclaim all
connection with this damned freak of yours. How to make the disclaimer
convincing enough is what bothers me."

The little man on his feet, buttoned up and ready to go, was no taller
than the seated Ossipon. He levelled his spectacles at the latter's face
point-blank.

"You might ask the police for a testimonial of good conduct. They know
where every one of you slept last night. Perhaps if you asked them they
would consent to publish some sort of official statement."

"No doubt they are aware well enough that we had nothing to do with
this," mumbled Ossipon bitterly. "What they will say is another thing."
He remained thoughtful, disregarding the short, owlish, shabby figure
standing by his side. "I must lay hands on Michaelis at once, and get
him to speak from his heart at one of our gatherings. The public has a
sort of sentimental regard for that fellow. His name is known. And I am
in touch with a few reporters on the big dailies. What he would say
would be utter bosh, but he has a turn of talk that makes it g