Chapter Chapter 4 · Chapter IV

. Chapter IV

Most of the thirty or so little tables covered by red cloths with a white

design stood ranged at right angles to the deep brown wainscoting of the

underground hall. Bronze chandeliers with many globes depended from the

low, slightly vaulted ceiling, and the fresco paintings ran flat and dull

all round the walls without windows, representing scenes of the chase and

of outdoor revelry in mediæval costumes. Varlets in green jerkins

brandished hunting knives and raised on high tankards of foaming beer.

“Unless I am very much mistaken, you are the man who would know the

inside of this confounded affair,” said the robust Ossipon, leaning over,

his elbows far out on the table and his feet tucked back completely under

his chair. His eyes stared with wild eagerness.

An upright semi-grand piano near the door, flanked by two palms in pots,

executed suddenly all by itself a valse tune with aggressive virtuosity.

The din it raised was deafening. When it ceased, as abruptly as it had

started, the be-spectacled, dingy little man who faced Ossipon behind a

heavy glass mug full of beer emitted calmly what had the sound of a

general proposition.

“In principle what one of us may or may not know as to any given fact

can’t be a matter for inquiry to the others.”

“Certainly not,” Comrade Ossipon agreed in a quiet undertone. “In

principle.”

With his big florid face held between his hands he continued to stare

hard, while the dingy little man in spectacles coolly took a drink of

beer and stood the glass mug back on the table. His flat, large ears

departed widely from the sides of his skull, which looked frail enough

for Ossipon to crush between thumb and forefinger; the dome of the

forehead seemed to rest on the rim of the spectacles; the flat cheeks, of

a greasy, unhealthy complexion, were merely smudged by the miserable

poverty of a thin dark whisker. The lamentable inferiority of the whole

physique was made ludicrous by the supremely self-confident bearing of

the individual. His speech was curt, and he had a particularly

impressive manner of keeping silent.

Ossipon spoke again from between his hands in a mutter.

“Have you been out much to-day?”

“No. I stayed in bed all the morning,” answered the other. “Why?”

“Oh! Nothing,” said Ossipon, gazing earnestly and quivering inwardly

with the desire to find out something, but obviously intimidated by the

little man’s overwhelming air of unconcern. When talking with this

comrade—which happened but rarely—the big Ossipon suffered from a sense

of moral and even physical insignificance. However, he ventured another

question. “Did you walk down here?”

“No; omnibus,” the little man answered readily enough. He lived far away

in Islington, in a small house down a shabby street, littered with straw

and dirty paper, where out of school hours a troop of assorted children

ran and squabbled with a shrill, joyless, rowdy clamour. His single back

room, remarkable for having an extremely large cupboard, he rented

furnished from two elderly spinsters, dressmakers in a humble way with a

clientele of servant girls mostly. He had a heavy padlock put on the

cupboard, but otherwise he was a model lodger, giving no trouble, and

requiring practically no attendance. His oddities were that he insisted

on being present when his room was being swept, and that when he went out

he locked his door, and took the key away with him.

Ossipon had a vision of these round black-rimmed spectacles progressing

along the streets on the top of an omnibus, their self-confident glitter

falling here and there on the walls of houses or lowered upon the heads

of the unconscious stream of people on the pavements. The ghost of a

sickly smile altered the set of Ossipon’s thick lips at the thought of

the walls nodding, of people running for life at the sight of those

spectacles. If they had only known! What a panic! He murmured

interrogatively: “Been sitting long here?”

“An hour or more,” answered the other negligently, and took a pull at the

dark beer. All his movements—the way he grasped the mug, the act of

drinking, the way he set the heavy glass down and folded his arms—had a

firmness, an assured precision which made the big and muscular Ossipon,

leaning forward with staring eyes and protruding lips, look the picture

of eager indecision.

“An hour,” he said. “Then it may be you haven’t heard yet the news I’ve

heard just now—in the street. Have you?”

The little man shook his head negatively the least bit. But as he gave

no indication of curiosity Ossipon ventured to add that he had heard it

just outside the place. A newspaper boy had yelled the thing under his

very nose, and not being prepared for anything of that sort, he was very

much startled and upset. He had to come in there with a dry mouth. “I

never thought of finding you here,” he added, murmuring steadily, with

his elbows planted on the table.

“I come here sometimes,” said the other, preserving his provoking

coolness of demeanour.

“It’s wonderful that you of all people should have heard nothing of it,”

the big Ossipon continued. His eyelids snapped nervously upon the

shining eyes. “You of all people,” he repeated tentatively. This

obvious restraint argued an incredible and inexplicable timidity of the

big fellow before the calm little man, who again lifted the glass mug,

drank, and put it down with brusque and assured movements. And that was

all.

Ossipon after waiting for something, word or sign, that did not come,

made an effort to assume a sort of indifference.

“Do you,” he said, deadening his voice still more, “give your stuff to

anybody who’s up to asking you for it?”

“My absolute rule is never to refuse anybody—as long as I have a pinch by

me,” answered the little man with decision.

“That’s a principle?” commented Ossipon.

“It’s a principle.”

“And you think it’s sound?”

The large round spectacles, which gave a look of staring self-confidence

to the sallow face, confronted Ossipon like sleepless, unwinking orbs

flashing a cold fire.

“Perfectly. Always. Under every circumstance. What could stop me? Why

should I not? Why should I think twice about it?”

Ossipon gasped, as it were, discreetly.

“Do you mean to say you would hand it over to a ‘teck’ if one came to ask

you for your wares?”

The other smiled faintly.

“Let them come and try it on, and you will see,” he said. “They know me,

but I know also every one of them. They won’t come near me—not they.”

His thin livid lips snapped together firmly. Ossipon began to argue.

“But they could send someone—rig a plant on you. Don’t you see? Get the

stuff from you in that way, and then arrest you with the proof in their

hands.”

“Proof of what? Dealing in explosives without a licence perhaps.” This

was meant for a contemptuous jeer, though the expression of the thin,

sickly face remained unchanged, and the utterance was negligent. “I

don’t think there’s one of them anxious to make that arrest. I don’t

think they could get one of them to apply for a warrant. I mean one of

the best. Not one.”

“Why?” Ossipon asked.

“Because they know very well I take care never to part with the last

handful of my wares. I’ve it always by me.” He touched the breast of

his coat lightly. “In a thick glass flask,” he added.

“So I have been told,” said Ossipon, with a shade of wonder in his voice.

“But I didn’t know if—”

“They know,” interrupted the little man crisply, leaning against the

straight chair back, which rose higher than his fragile head. “I shall

never be arrested. The game isn’t good enough for any policeman of them

all. To deal with a man like me you require sheer, naked, inglorious

heroism.” Again his lips closed with a self-confident snap. Ossipon

repressed a movement of impatience.

“Or recklessness—or simply ignorance,” he retorted. “They’ve only to get

somebody for the job who does not know you carry enough stuff in your

pocket to blow yourself and everything within sixty yards of you to

pieces.”

“I never affirmed I could not be eliminated,” rejoined the other. “But

that wouldn’t be an arrest. Moreover, it’s not so easy as it looks.”

“Bah!” Ossipon contradicted. “Don’t be too sure of that. What’s to

prevent half-a-dozen of them jumping upon you from behind in the street?

With your arms pinned to your sides you could do nothing—could you?”

“Yes; I could. I am seldom out in the streets after dark,” said the

little man impassively, “and never very late. I walk always with my

right hand closed round the india-rubber ball which I have in my trouser

pocket. The pressing of this ball actuates a detonator inside the flask

I carry in my pocket. It’s the principle of the pneumatic instantaneous

shutter for a camera lens. The tube leads up—”

With a swift disclosing gesture he gave Ossipon a glimpse of an

india-rubber tube, resembling a slender brown worm, issuing from the

armhole of his waistcoat and plunging into the inner breast pocket of his

jacket. His clothes, of a nondescript brown mixture, were threadbare and

marked with stains, dusty in the folds, with ragged button-holes. “The

detonator is partly mechanical, partly chemical,” he explained, with

casual condescension.

“It is instantaneous, of course?” murmured Ossipon, with a slight

shudder.

“Far from it,” confessed the other, with a reluctance which seemed to

twist his mouth dolorously. “A full twenty seconds must elapse from the

moment I press the ball till the explosion takes place.”

“Phew!” whistled Ossipon, completely appalled. “Twenty seconds!

Horrors! You mean to say that you could face that? I should go crazy—”

“Wouldn’t matter if you did. Of course, it’s the weak point of this

special system, which is only for my own use. The worst is that the

manner of exploding is always the weak point with us. I am trying to

invent a detonator that would adjust itself to all conditions of action,

and even to unexpected changes of conditions. A variable and yet

perfectly precise mechanism. A really intelligent detonator.”

“Twenty seconds,” muttered Ossipon again. “Ough! And then—”

With a slight turn of the head the glitter of the spectacles seemed to

gauge the size of the beer saloon in the basement of the renowned Silenus

Restaurant.

“Nobody in this room could hope to escape,” was the verdict of that

survey. “Nor yet this couple going up the stairs now.”

The piano at the foot of the staircase clanged through a mazurka with

brazen impetuosity, as though a vulgar and impudent ghost were showing

off. The keys sank and rose mysteriously. Then all became still. For a

moment Ossipon imagined the overlighted place changed into a dreadful

black hole belching horrible fumes choked with ghastly rubbish of smashed

brickwork and mutilated corpses. He had such a distinct perception of

ruin and death that he shuddered again. The other observed, with an air

of calm sufficiency:

“In the last instance it is character alone that makes for one’s safety.

There are very few people in the world whose character is as well

established as mine.”

“I wonder how you managed it,” growled Ossipon.

“Force of personality,” said the other, without raising his voice; and

coming from the mouth of that obviously miserable organism the assertion

caused the robust Ossipon to bite his lower lip. “Force of personality,”

he repeated, with ostentatious calm. “I have the means to make myself

deadly, but that by itself, you understand, is absolutely nothing in the

way of protection. What is effective is the belief those people have in

my will to use the means. That’s their impression. It is absolute.

Therefore I am deadly.”

“There are individuals of character amongst that lot too,” muttered

Ossipon ominously.

“Possibly. But it is a matter of degree obviously, since, for instance,

I am not impressed by them. Therefore they are inferior. They cannot be

otherwise. Their character is built upon conventional morality. It

leans on the social order. Mine stands free from everything artificial.

They are bound in all sorts of conventions. They depend on life, which,

in this connection, is a historical fact surrounded by all sorts of

restraints and considerations, a complex organised fact open to attack at

every point; whereas I depend on death, which knows no restraint and

cannot be attacked. My superiority is evident.”

“This is a transcendental way of putting it,” said Ossipon, watching the

cold glitter of the round spectacles. “I’ve heard Karl Yundt say much

the same thing not very long ago.”

“Karl Yundt,” mumbled the other contemptuously, “the delegate of the

International Red Committee, has been a posturing shadow all his life.

There are three of you delegates, aren’t there? I won’t define the other

two, as you are one of them. But what you say means nothing. You are

the worthy delegates for revolutionary propaganda, but the trouble is not

only that you are as unable to think independently as any respectable

grocer or journalist of them all, but that you have no character

whatever.”

Ossipon could not restrain a start of indignation.

“But what do you want from us?” he exclaimed in a deadened voice. “What

is it you are after yourself?”

“A perfect detonator,” was the peremptory answer. “What are you making

that face for? You see, you can’t even bear the mention of something

conclusive.”

“I am not making a face,” growled the annoyed Ossipon bearishly.

“You revolutionists,” the other continued, with leisurely

self-confidence, “are the slaves of the social convention, which is

afraid of you; slaves of it as much as the very police that stands up in

the defence of that convention. Clearly you are, since you want to

revolutionise it. It governs your thought, of course, and your action

too, and thus neither your thought nor your action can ever be

conclusive.” He paused, tranquil, with that air of close, endless

silence, then almost immediately went on. “You are not a bit better than

the forces arrayed against you—than the police, for instance. The other

day I came suddenly upon Chief Inspector Heat at the corner of Tottenham

Court Road. He looked at me very steadily. But I did not look at him.

Why should I give him more than a glance? He was thinking of many

things—of his superiors, of his reputation, of the law courts, of his

salary, of newspapers—of a hundred things. But I was thinking of my

perfect detonator only. He meant nothing to me. He was as insignificant

as—I can’t call to mind anything insignificant enough to compare him

with—except Karl Yundt perhaps. Like to like. The terrorist and the

policeman both come from the same basket. Revolution, legality—counter

moves in the same game; forms of idleness at bottom identical. He plays

his little game—so do you propagandists. But I don’t play; I work

fourteen hours a day, and go hungry sometimes. My experiments cost money

now and again, and then I must do without food for a day or two. You’re

looking at my beer. Yes. I have had two glasses already, and shall have

another presently. This is a little holiday, and I celebrate it alone.

Why not? I’ve the grit to work alone, quite alone, absolutely alone.

I’ve worked alone for years.”

Ossipon’s face had turned dusky red.

“At the perfect detonator—eh?” he sneered, very low.

“Yes,” retorted the other. “It is a good definition. You couldn’t find

anything half so precise to define the nature of your activity with all

your committees and delegations. It is I who am the true propagandist.”

“We won’t discuss that point,” said Ossipon, with an air of rising above

personal considerations. “I am afraid I’ll have to spoil your holiday

for you, though. There’s a man blown up in Greenwich Park this morning.”

“How do you know?”

“They have been yelling the news in the streets since two o’clock. I

bought the paper, and just ran in here. Then I saw you sitting at this

table. I’ve got it in my pocket now.”

He pulled the newspaper out. It was a good-sized rosy sheet, as if

flushed by the warmth of its own convictions, which were optimistic. He

scanned the pages rapidly.

“Ah! Here it is. Bomb in Greenwich Park. There isn’t much so far.

Half-past eleven. Foggy morning. Effects of explosion felt as far as

Romney Road and Park Place. Enormous hole in the ground under a tree

filled with smashed roots and broken branches. All round fragments of a

man’s body blown to pieces. That’s all. The rest’s mere newspaper gup.

No doubt a wicked attempt to blow up the Observatory, they say. H’m.

That’s hardly credible.”

He looked at the paper for a while longer in silence, then passed it to

the other, who after gazing abstractedly at the print laid it down

without comment.

It was Ossipon who spoke first—still resentful.

“The fragments of only _one_ man, you note. Ergo: blew _himself_ up.

That spoils your day off for you—don’t it? Were you expecting that sort

of move? I hadn’t the slightest idea—not the ghost of a notion of

anything of the sort being planned to come off here—in this country.

Under the present circumstances it’s nothing short of criminal.”

The little man lifted his thin black eyebrows with dispassionate scorn.

“Criminal! What is that? What _is_ crime? What can be the meaning of

such an assertion?”

“How am I to express myself? One must use the current words,” said

Ossipon impatiently. “The meaning of this assertion is that this

business may affect our position very adversely in this country. Isn’t

that crime enough for you? I am convinced you have been giving away some

of your stuff lately.”

Ossipon stared hard. The other, without flinching, lowered and raised

his head slowly.

“You have!” burst out the editor of the F. P. leaflets in an intense

whisper. “No! And are you really handing it over at large like this,

for the asking, to the first fool that comes along?”

“Just so! The condemned social order has not been built up on paper and

ink, and I don’t fancy that a combination of paper and ink will ever put

an end to it, whatever you may think. Yes, I would give the stuff with

both hands to every man, woman, or fool that likes to come along. I know

what you are thinking about. But I am not taking my cue from the Red

Committee. I would see you all hounded out of here, or arrested—or

beheaded for that matter—without turning a hair. What happens to us as

individuals is not of the least consequence.”

He spoke carelessly, without heat, almost without feeling, and Ossipon,

secretly much affected, tried to copy this detachment.

“If the police here knew their business they would shoot you full of

holes with revolvers, or else try to sand-bag you from behind in broad

daylight.”

The little man seemed already to have considered that point of view in

his dispassionate self-confident manner.

“Yes,” he assented with the utmost readiness. “But for that they would

have to face their own institutions. Do you see? That requires uncommon

grit. Grit of a special kind.”

Ossipon blinked.

“I fancy that’s exactly what would happen to you if you were to set up

your laboratory in the States. They don’t stand on ceremony with their

institutions there.”

“I am not likely to go and see. Otherwise your remark is just,” admitted

the other. “They have more character over there, and their character is

essentially anarchistic. Fertile ground for us, the States—very good

ground. The great Republic has the root of the destructive matter in

her. The collective temperament is lawless. Excellent. They may shoot

us down, but—”

“You are too transcendental for me,” growled Ossipon, with moody concern.

“Logical,” protested the other. “There are several kinds of logic. This

is the enlightened kind. America is all right. It is this country that

is dangerous, with her idealistic conception of legality. The social

spirit of this people is wrapped up in scrupulous prejudices, and that is

fatal to our work. You talk of England being our only refuge! So much

the worse. Capua! What do we want with refuges? Here you talk, print,

plot, and do nothing. I daresay it’s very convenient for such Karl

Yundts.”

He shrugged his shoulders slightly, then added with the same leisurely

assurance: “To break up the superstition and worship of legality should

be our aim. Nothing would please me more than to see Inspector Heat and

his likes take to shooting us down in broad daylight with the approval of

the public. Half our battle would be won then; the disintegration of the

old morality would have set in in its very temple. That is what you

ought to aim at. But you revolutionists will never understand that. You

plan the future, you lose yourselves in reveries of economical systems

derived from what is; whereas what’s wanted is a clean sweep and a clear

start for a new conception of life. That sort of future will take care

of itself if you will only make room for it. Therefore I would shovel my

stuff in heaps at the corners of the streets if I had enough for that;

and as I haven’t, I do my best by perfecting a really dependable

detonator.”

Ossipon, who had been mentally swimming in deep waters, seized upon the

last word as if it were a saving plank.

“Yes. Your detonators. I shouldn’t wonder if it weren’t one of your

detonators that made a clean sweep of the man in the park.”

A shade of vexation darkened the determined sallow face confronting

Ossipon.

“My difficulty consists precisely in experimenting practically with the

various kinds. They must be tried after all. Besides—”

Ossipon interrupted.

“Who could that fellow be? I assure you that we in London had no

knowledge—Couldn’t you describe the person you gave the stuff to?”

The other turned his spectacles upon Ossipon like a pair of searchlights.

“Describe him,” he repeated slowly. “I don’t think there can be the

slightest objection now. I will describe him to you in one word—Verloc.”

Ossipon, whom curiosity had lifted a few inches off his seat, dropped

back, as if hit in the face.

“Verloc! Impossible.”

The self-possessed little man nodded slightly once.

“Yes. He’s the person. You can’t say that in this case I was giving my

stuff to the first fool that came along. He was a prominent member of

the group as far as I understand.”

“Yes,” said Ossipon. “Prominent. No, not exactly. He was the centre

for general intelligence, and usually received comrades coming over here.

More useful than important. Man of no ideas. Years ago he used to speak

at meetings—in France, I believe. Not very well, though. He was trusted

by such men as Latorre, Moser and all that old lot. The only talent he

showed really was his ability to elude the attentions of the police

somehow. Here, for instance, he did not seem to be looked after very

closely. He was regularly married, you know. I suppose it’s with her

money that he started that shop. Seemed to make it pay, too.”

Ossipon paused abruptly, muttered to himself “I wonder what that woman

will do now?” and fell into thought.

The other waited with ostentatious indifference. His parentage was

obscure, and he was generally known only by his nickname of Professor.

His title to that designation consisted in his having been once assistant

demonstrator in chemistry at some technical institute. He quarrelled

with the authorities upon a question of unfair treatment. Afterwards he

obtained a post in the laboratory of a manufactory of dyes. There too he

had been treated with revolting injustice. His struggles, his

privations, his hard work to raise himself in the social scale, had

filled him with such an exalted conviction of his merits that it was

extremely difficult for the world to treat him with justice—the standard

of that notion depending so much upon the patience of the individual.

The Professor had genius, but lacked the great social virtue of

resignation.

“Intellectually a nonentity,” Ossipon pronounced aloud, abandoning

suddenly the inward contemplation of Mrs Verloc’s bereaved person and

business. “Quite an ordinary personality. You are wrong in not keeping

more in touch with the comrades, Professor,” he added in a reproving

tone. “Did he say anything to you—give you some idea of his intentions?

I hadn’t seen him for a month. It seems impossible that he should be

gone.”

“He told me it was going to be a demonstration against a building,” said

the Professor. “I had to know that much to prepare the missile. I

pointed out to him that I had hardly a sufficient quantity for a

completely destructive result, but he pressed me very earnestly to do my

best. As he wanted something that could be carried openly in the hand, I

proposed to make use of an old one-gallon copal varnish can I happened to

have by me. He was pleased at the idea. It gave me some trouble,

because I had to cut out the bottom first and solder it on again

afterwards. When prepared for use, the can enclosed a wide-mouthed,

well-corked jar of thick glass packed around with some wet clay and

containing sixteen ounces of X2 green powder. The detonator was

connected with the screw top of the can. It was ingenious—a combination

of time and shock. I explained the system to him. It was a thin tube of

tin enclosing a—”

Ossipon’s attention had wandered.

“What do you think has happened?” he interrupted.

“Can’t tell. Screwed the top on tight, which would make the connection,

and then forgot the time. It was set for twenty minutes. On the other

hand, the time contact being made, a sharp shock would bring about the

explosion at once. He either ran the time too close, or simply let the

thing fall. The contact was made all right—that’s clear to me at any

rate. The system’s worked perfectly. And yet you would think that a

common fool in a hurry would be much more likely to forget to make the

contact altogether. I was worrying myself about that sort of failure

mostly. But there are more kinds of fools than one can guard against.

You can’t expect a detonator to be absolutely fool-proof.”

He beckoned to a waiter. Ossipon sat rigid, with the abstracted gaze of

mental travail. After the man had gone away with the money he roused

himself, with an air of profound dissatisfaction.

“It’s extremely unpleasant for me,” he mused. “Karl has been in bed with

bronchitis for a week. There’s an even chance that he will never get up

again. Michaelis’s luxuriating in the country somewhere. A fashionable

publisher has offered him five hundred pounds for a book. It will be a

ghastly failure. He has lost the habit of consecutive thinking in

prison, you know.”

The Professor on his feet, now buttoning his coat, looked about him with

perfect indifference.

“What are you going to do?” asked Ossipon wearily. He dreaded the blame

of the Central Red Committee, a body which had no permanent place of

abode, and of whose membership he was not exactly informed. If this

affair eventuated in the stoppage of the modest subsidy allotted to the

publication of the F. P. pamphlets, then indeed he would have to regret

Verloc’s inexplicable folly.

“Solidarity with the extremest form of action is one thing, and silly

recklessness is another,” he said, with a sort of moody brutality. “I

don’t know what came to Verloc. There’s some mystery there. However,

he’s gone. You may take it as you like, but under the circumstances the

only policy for the militant revolutionary group is to disclaim all

connection with this damned freak of yours. How to make the disclaimer

convincing enough is what bothers me.”

The little man on his feet, buttoned up and ready to go, was no taller

than the seated Ossipon. He levelled his spectacles at the latter’s face

point-blank.

“You might ask the police for a testimonial of good conduct. They know

where every one of you slept last night. Perhaps if you asked them they

would consent to publish some sort of official statement.”

“No doubt they are aware well enough that we had nothing to do with

this,” mumbled Ossipon bitterly. “What they will say is another thing.”

He remained thoughtful, disregarding the short, owlish, shabby figure

standing by his side. “I must lay hands on Michaelis at once, and get

him to speak from his heart at one of our gatherings. The public has a

sort of sentimental regard for that fellow. His name is known. And I am

in touch with a few reporters on the big dailies. What he would say

would be utter bosh, but he has a turn of talk that makes it go down all

the same.”

“Like treacle,” interjected the Professor, rather low, keeping an

impassive expression.

The perplexed Ossipon went on communing with himself half audibly, after

the manner of a man reflecting in perfect solitude.

“Confounded ass! To leave such an imbecile business on my hands. And I

don’t even know if—”

He sat with compressed lips. The idea of going for news straight to the

shop lacked charm. His notion was that Verloc’s shop might have been

turned already into a police trap. They will be bound to make some

arrests, he thought, with something resembling virtuous indignation, for

the even tenor of his revolutionary life was menaced by no fault of his.

And yet unless he went there he ran the risk of remaining in ignorance of

what perhaps it would be very material for him to know. Then he

reflected that, if the man in the park had been so very much blown to

pieces as the evening papers said, he could not have been identified.

And if so, the police could have no special reason for watching Verloc’s

shop more closely than any other place known to be frequented by marked

anarchists—no more reason, in fact, than for watching the doors of the

Silenus. There would be a lot of watching all round, no matter where he

went. Still—

“I wonder what I had better do now?” he muttered, taking counsel with

himself.

A rasping voice at his elbow said, with sedate scorn:

“Fasten yourself upon the woman for all she’s worth.”

After uttering these words the Professor walked away from the table.

Ossipon, whom that piece of insight had taken unawares, gave one

ineffectual start, and remained still, with a helpless gaze, as though

nailed fast to the seat of his chair. The lonely piano, without as much

as a music stool to help it, struck a few chords courageously, and

beginning a selection of national airs, played him out at last to the

tune of “Blue Bells of Scotland.” The painfully detached notes grew

faint behind his back while he went slowly upstairs, across the hall, and

into the street.

In front of the great doorway a dismal row of newspaper sellers standing

clear of the pavement dealt out their wares from the gutter. It was a

raw, gloomy day of the early spring; and the grimy sky, the mud of the

streets, the rags of the dirty men, harmonised excellently with the

eruption of the damp, rubbishy sheets of paper soiled with printers’ ink.

The posters, maculated with filth, garnished like tapestry the sweep of

the curbstone. The trade in afternoon papers was brisk, yet, in

comparison with the swift, constant march of foot traffic, the effect was

of indifference, of a disregarded distribution. Ossipon looked hurriedly

both ways before stepping out into the cross-currents, but the Professor

was already out of sight.