"Or Chinese," added Mr Verloc stolidly.

"H'm. Some of your revolutionary friends' effusions are written in a
_charabia_ every bit as incomprehensible as Chinese--" Mr Vladimir let
fall disdainfully a grey sheet of printed matter. "What are all these
leaflets headed F. P., with a hammer, pen, and torch crossed? What does
it mean, this F. P.?" Mr Verloc approached the imposing writing-table.

"The Future of the Proletariat. It's a society," he explained, standing
ponderously by the side of the arm-chair, "not anarchist in principle,
but open to all shades of revolutionary opinion."

"Are you in it?"

"One of the Vice-Presidents," Mr Verloc breathed out heavily; and the
First Secretary of the Embassy raised his head to look at him.

"Then you ought to be ashamed of yourself," he said incisively. "Isn't
your society capable of anything else but printing this prophetic bosh in
blunt type on this filthy paper eh? Why don't you do something? Look
here. I've this matter in hand now, and I tell you plainly that you will
have to earn your money. The good old Stott-Wartenheim times are over.
No work, no pay."

Mr Verloc felt a queer sensation of faintness in his stout legs. He
stepped back one pace, and blew his nose loudly.

He was, in truth, startled and alarmed. The rusty London sunshine
struggling clear of the London mist shed a lukewarm brightness into the