east. To his astonishment she came quite
easily, and even rested on his arm for a moment before she attempted to
disengage herself. Comrade Ossipon would not be brusque with kind fate.
He withdrew his arm in a natural way.

"You recognised me," she faltered out, standing before him, fairly steady
on her legs.

"Of course I did," said Ossipon with perfect readiness. "I was afraid
you were going to fall. I've thought of you too often lately not to
recognise you anywhere, at any time. I've always thought of you--ever
since I first set eyes on you."

Mrs Verloc seemed not to hear. "You were coming to the shop?" she said
nervously.

"Yes; at once," answered Ossipon. "Directly I read the paper."

In fact, Comrade Ossipon had been skulking for a good two hours in the
neighbourhood of Brett Street, unable to make up his mind for a bold
move. The robust anarchist was not exactly a bold conqueror. He
remembered that Mrs Verloc had never responded to his glances by the
slightest sign of encouragement. Besides, he thought the shop might be
watched by the police, and Comrade Ossipon did not wish the police to
form an exaggerated notion of his revolutionary sympathies. Even now he
did not know precisely what to do. In comparison with his usual amatory
speculations this was a big and serious undertaking. He ignored how much
there was in it and how far he would have to go in order to get hold of
what there was to get--supposing there was a chance at all. These
perplexities checking his elation imparted to his tone a soberness well
in keeping with the circumstances.

"May I ask you where you were going?" he inquired in a subdued voice.

"Don't ask me!" cried Mrs Verloc with a shuddering, repressed violence.
All her strong vitality recoiled from the idea of death. "Never mind
where I was going. . . ."

Ossipon concluded that she was very much excited but perfectly sober.
She remained silent by his side for moment, then all at once she did
something which he did not expect. She slipped her hand under his arm.
He was startled by the act itself certainly, and quite as much too by the
palpably resolute character of this movement. But this being a delicate
affair, Comrade Ossipon behaved with delicacy. He contented himself by
pressing the hand slightly against his robust ribs. At the same time he
felt himself being impelled forward, and yielded to the impulse. At the
end of Brett Street he became aware of being di