mir deigned to interrupt, unbending,
but without affability; there was, on the contrary, a touch of grimness
in his condescension. "How long have you been employed by the Embassy
here?" he asked.

"Ever since the time of the late Baron Stott-Wartenheim," Mr Verloc
answered in subdued tones, and protruding his lips sadly, in sign of
sorrow for the deceased diplomat. The First Secretary observed this play
of physiognomy steadily.

"Ah! ever since. Well! What have you got to say for yourself?" he asked
sharply.

Mr Verloc answered with some surprise that he was not aware of having
anything special to say. He had been summoned by a letter--And he
plunged his hand busily into the side pocket of his overcoat, but before
the mocking, cynical watchfulness of Mr Vladimir, concluded to leave it
there.

"Bah!" said that latter. "What do you mean by getting out of condition
like this? You haven't got even the physique of your profession. You--a
member of a starving proletariat--never! You--a desperate socialist or
anarchist--which is it?"

"Anarchist," stated Mr Verloc in a deadened tone.

"Bosh!" went on Mr Vladimir, without raising his voice. "You startled
old Wurmt himself. You wouldn't deceive an idiot. They all are that
by-the-by, but you seem to me simply impossible. So you began your
connection with us by stealing the French gun designs. And you got
yourself caught. That must have been very disagreeable to our
Government. You don't seem to be very smart."

Mr Verloc tried to exculpate himself huskily.

"As I've had occasion to observe before, a fatal infatuation for an
unworthy--"

Mr Vladimir raised a large white, plump hand. "Ah, yes. The unlucky
attachment--of your youth. She got hold of the money, and then sold you
to the police--eh?"

The doleful change in Mr Verloc's physiognomy, the momentary drooping of
his whole person, confessed that such was the regrettable case. Mr
Vladimir's hand clasped the ankle reposing on his knee. The sock was of
dark blue silk.

"You see, that was not very clever of you. Perhaps you are too
susceptible."

Mr Verloc intimated in a throaty, veiled murmur that he was no longer
young.

"Oh! That's a failing which age does not cure," Mr Vladimir remarked,
with sinister familiarity. "But no! You are too fat for that. You
could not have come to look like this if you had been at all susceptible.
I'll tell you what I think is the matter: you are a lazy f