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 cr