What on earth is he doing there? Mr Verloc asked himself. What's the
meaning of these antics? He looked dubiously at his brother-in-law, but
he did not ask him for information. Mr Verloc's intercourse with Stevie
was limited to the casual mutter of a morning, after breakfast, "My
boots," and even that was more a communication at large of a need than a
direct order or request. Mr Verloc perceived with some surprise that he
did not know really what to say to Stevie. He stood still in the middle
of the parlour, and looked into the kitchen in silence. Nor yet did he
know what would happen if he did say anything. And this appeared very
queer to Mr Verloc in view of the fact, borne upon him suddenly, that he
had to provide for this fellow too. He had never given a moment's
thought till then to that aspect of Stevie's existence.

Positively he did not know how to speak to the lad. He watched him
gesticulating and murmuring in the kitchen. Stevie prowled round the
table like an excited animal in a cage. A tentative "Hadn't you better
go to bed now?" produced no effect whatever; and Mr Verloc, abandoning
the stony contemplation of his brother-in-law's behaviour, crossed the
parlour wearily, cash-box in hand. The cause of the general lassitude he
felt while climbing the stairs being purely mental, he became alarmed by
its inexplicable character. He hoped he was not sickening for anything.
He stopped on the dark landing to examine his sensations. But a slight
and continuous sound of snoring pervading the obscurity interfered with
their clearness. The sound came from his mother-in-law's room. Another
one to provide for, he thought--and on this thought walked into the
bedroom.

Mrs Verloc had fallen asleep with the lamp (no gas was laid upstairs)
turned up full on the table by the side of the bed. The light thrown