genuity of journalists to persuade their public
that any given member of the proletariat can have a personal grievance
against astronomy. Starvation itself could hardly be dragged in
there--eh? And there are other advantages. The whole civilised world
has heard of Greenwich. The very boot-blacks in the basement of Charing
Cross Station know something of it. See?"

The features of Mr Vladimir, so well known in the best society by their
humorous urbanity, beamed with cynical self-satisfaction, which would
have astonished the intelligent women his wit entertained so exquisitely.
"Yes," he continued, with a contemptuous smile, "the blowing up of the
first meridian is bound to raise a howl of execration."

"A difficult business," Mr Verloc mumbled, feeling that this was the only
safe thing to say.

"What is the matter? Haven't you the whole gang under your hand? The
very pick of the basket? That old terrorist Yundt is here. I see him
walking about Piccadilly in his green havelock almost every day. And
Michaelis, the ticket-of-leave apostle--you don't mean to say you don't
know where he is? Because if you don't, I can tell you," Mr Vladimir
went on menacingly. "If you imagine that you are the only one on the
secret fund list, you are mistaken."

This perfectly gratuitous suggestion caused Mr Verloc to shuffle his feet
slightly.

"And the whole Lausanne lot--eh? Haven't they been flocking over here at
the first hint of the Milan Conference? This is an absurd country."

"It will cost money," Mr Verloc said, by a sort of instinct.

"That cock won't fight," Mr Vladimir retorted, with an amazingly genuine
English accent. "You'll get your screw every month, and no more till
something happens. And if nothing happens very soon you won't get even
that. What's your ostensible occupation? What are you supposed to live
by?"

"I keep a shop," answered Mr Verloc.

"A shop! What sort of shop?"

"Stationery, newspapers. My wife--"

"Your what?" interrupted Mr Vladimir in his guttural Central Asian tones.

"My wife." Mr Verloc raised his husky voice slightly. "I am married."

"That be damned for a yarn," exclaimed the other in unfeigned
astonishment. "Married! And you a professed anarchist, too! What is
this confounded nonsense? But I suppose it's merely a manner of
speaking. Anarchists don't marry. It's well known. They can't. It
would be apostasy."

"My wife isn't one," Mr Verloc mumbled sulkil