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," interrupted the other. "I daresay you could
have been legally a Marshal of France and a Member of Parliament in
England--and then, indeed, you would have been of some use to our
Embassy."