This flight of fancy provoked something like a faint smile on Mr Verloc's
face. Mr Vladimir retained an imperturbable gravity.

"But, as I've said, you are a lazy fellow; you don't use your
opportunities. In the time of Baron Stott-Wartenheim we had a lot of
soft-headed people running this Embassy. They caused fellows of your
sort to form a false conception of the nature of a secret service fund.
It is my business to correct this misapprehension by telling you what the
secret service is not. It is not a philanthropic institution. I've had
you called here on purpose to tell you this."

Mr Vladimir observed the forced expression of bewilderment on Verloc's
face, and smiled sarcastically.

"I see that you understand me perfectly. I daresay you are intelligent
enough for your work. What we want now is activity--activity."

On repeating this last word Mr Vladimir laid a long white forefinger on
the edge of the desk. Every trace of huskiness disappeared from Verloc's
voice. The nape of his gross neck became crimson above the velvet collar
of his overcoat. His lips quivered before they came widely open.

"If you'll only be good enough to look up my record," he boomed out in
his great, clear oratorical bass, "you'll see I gave a warning only three
months ago, on the occasion of the Grand Duke Romuald's visit to Paris,
which was telegraphed from here to the French police, and--"

"Tut, tut!" broke out Mr Vladimir, with a frowning grimace. "The French
police had no use for your warning. Don't roar like this. What the
devil do you mean?"