 there.
    »Bah!« said the 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 fellow. How long have you been drawing pay from
this Embassy?«
    »Eleven years,« was the answer, after a moment of sulky hesitation. »I've
been charged with several missions to London while His Excellency Baron
Stott-Wartenheim was still Ambassador in Paris. Then by his Excellency's
instructions I settled down in London. I am English.«
    »You are! Are you? Eh?«
    »A natural-born British subject,« Mr. Verloc said, stolidly. »But my father
was French, and so -«
    »Never mind explaining,«
