Anarchists -- Fiction; Bombings -- Fiction; Conspiracies -- Fiction; London (England) -- Fiction; Political fiction
“Pardon me. I don’t think so. Where could he go to? Moreover, you must
remember that he has got to think of the danger from his comrades too.
He’s there at his post. How could he explain leaving it? But even if
there were no obstacles to his freedom of action he would do nothing. At
present he hasn’t enough moral energy to take a resolution of any sort.
Permit me also to point out that if I had detained him we would have been
committed to a course of action on which I wished to know your precise
intentions first.”
The great personage rose heavily, an imposing shadowy form in the
greenish gloom of the room.
“I’ll see the Attorney-General to-night, and will send for you to-morrow
morning. Is there anything more you’d wish to tell me now?”
The Assistant Commissioner had stood up also, slender and flexible.
“I think not, Sir Ethelred, unless I were to enter into details which—”
“No. No details, please.”
The great shadowy form seemed to shrink away as if in physical dread of
details; then came forward, expanded, enormous, and weighty, offering a
large hand. “And you say that this man has got a wife?”
“Yes, Sir Ethelred,” said the Assistant Commissioner, pressing
deferentially the extended hand. “A genuine wife and a genuinely,
respectably, marital relation. He told me that after his interview at
the Embassy he would have thrown everything up, would have tried to sell
his shop, and leave the country, only he felt certain that his wife would
not even hear of going abroad. Nothing could be more characteristic of
the respectable bond than that,” went on, with a touch of grimness, the
Assistant Commissioner, whose own wife too had refused to hear of going
abroad. “Yes, a genuine wife. And the victim was a genuine
brother-in-law. From a certain point of view we are here in the presence
of a domestic drama.”
The Assistant Commissioner laughed a little; but the great man’s thoughts
seemed to have wandered far away, perhaps to the questions of his
country’s domestic policy, the battle-ground of his crusading valour
against the paynim Cheeseman. The Assistant Commissioner withdrew
quietly, unnoticed, as if already forgotten.
He had his own crusading instincts. This affair, which, in one way or
another, disgusted Chief Inspector Heat, seemed to him a providentially
given starting-point for a crusade. He had it much at heart to begin.
He walked slowly home, meditating that enterprise on the way, and
thinking over Mr Verloc’s psychology in a composite mood of repugnance
and satisfaction. He walked all the way home. Finding the drawing-room
dark, he went upstairs, and spent some time between the bedroom and the
dressing-room, changing his clothes, going to and fro with the air of a
thoughtful somnambulist. But he shook it off before going out again to
join his wife at the house of the great lady patroness of Michaelis.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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