 not be avoided. He did not wish now to avoid it. A
prison was a place as safe from certain unlawful vengeances as the grave, with
this advantage, that in a prison there is room for hope. What he saw before him
was a term of imprisonment, an early release, and then life abroad somewhere,
such as he had contemplated already, in case of failure. Well, it was a failure,
if not exactly the sort of failure he had feared. It had been so near success
that he could have positively terrified Mr. Vladimir out of his ferocious
scoffing with this proof of occult efficiency. So at least it seemed now to Mr.
Verloc. His prestige with the Embassy would have been immense if - if his wife
had not had the unlucky notion of sewing on the address inside Stevie's
overcoat. Mr. Verloc, who was no fool, had soon perceived the extraordinary
character of the influence he had over Stevie, though he did not understand
exactly its origin - the doctrine of his supreme wisdom and goodness inculcated
by two anxious women. In all the eventualities he had foreseen Mr. Verloc had
calculated with correct insight on Stevie's instinctive loyalty and blind
discretion. The eventuality he had not foreseen had appalled him as a humane man
and a fond husband. From every other point of view it was rather advantageous.
Nothing can equal the everlasting discretion of death. Mr. Verloc, sitting
perplexed and frightened in the small parlour of the Cheshire Cheese, could not
help acknowledging that to himself, because his sensibility did not stand in the
way of his judgment. Stevie's violent disintegration, however disturbing to
think about, only assured the success; for, of course, the knocking down of a
wall was not the aim of Mr. Vladimir's menaces, but the production of a moral
effect. With much trouble and distress on Mr. Verloc's part the effect might be
said to have been produced. When, however, most unexpectedly, it came home to
roost in Brett Street, Mr. Verloc, who had been struggling like a man in a
nightmare for the preservation of his position, accepted the blow in the spirit
of a convinced fatalist. The position was gone through no one's fault really. A
small, tiny fact had done it. It was like slipping on a bit of orange peel in
the dark and breaking your leg.
    Mr. Verloc drew a weary breath. He nourished no resentment against his wife.
He thought: She will have to look after the shop while they keep me locked up.
