The anarchist did not stir. An inward laugh of derision uncovered not
only his teeth but his gums as well, shook him all over, without the
slightest sound. Chief Inspector Heat was led to add, against his better
judgment:

"Not yet. When I want you I will know where to find you."

Those were perfectly proper words, within the tradition and suitable to
his character of a police officer addressing one of his special flock.
But the reception they got departed from tradition and propriety. It was
outrageous. The stunted, weakly figure before him spoke at last.

"I've no doubt the papers would give you an obituary notice then. You
know best what that would be worth to you. I should think you can
imagine easily the sort of stuff that would be printed. But you may be
exposed to the unpleasantness of being buried together with me, though I
suppose your friends would make an effort to sort us out as much as
possible."

With all his healthy contempt for the spirit dictating such speeches, the
atrocious allusiveness of the words had its effect on Chief Inspector
Heat. He had too much insight, and too much exact information as well,
to dismiss them as rot. The dusk of this narrow lane took on a sinister
tint from the dark, frail little figure, its back to the wall, and
speaking with a weak, self-confident voice. To the vigorous, tenacious
vitality of the Chief Inspector, the physical wretchedness of that being,
so obviously not fit to live, was ominous; for it seemed to him that if
he had the misfortune to be such a miserable object he would not have
cared how soon he died. Life had such a strong hold upon him that a
fresh wave of nausea broke out in slight perspiration upon his brow. The