In any case he had not the time.He was pulled up painfully by the sudden recollection of Mr Vladimir, another of his associates, whom in virtue of subtle moral affinities he was capable of judging correctly.He considered him as dangerous.A shade of envy crept into his thoughts.Loafing was all very well for these fellows, who knew not Mr Vladimir, and had women to fall back upon; whereas he had a woman to provide for--At this point, by a ****** association of ideas, Mr Verloc was brought face to face with the necessity of going to bed some time or other that evening.Then why not go now - at once? He sighed.The necessity was not so normally pleasurable as it ought to have been for a man of his age and temperament.He dreaded the demon of sleeplessness, which he felt had marked him for its own.He raised his arm, and turned off the flaring gas-jet above his head.
A bright band of light fell through the parlour door into the part of the shop behind the counter.It enabled Mr Verloc to ascertain at a glance the number of silver coins in the till.These were but few; and for the first time since he opened his shop he took a commercial survey of its value.This survey was unfavourable.He had gone into trade for no commercial reasons.He had been guided in the selection of this peculiar line of business by an instinctive leaning towards shady transactions, where money is picked up easily.Moreover, it did not take him out of his own sphere - the sphere which Is watched by the police.On the contrary, it gave him a publicly confessed standing in that sphere, and as Mr Verloc had unconfessed relations which made him familiar with yet careless of the police, there was a distinct advantage in such a situation.But as a means of livelihood it was by itself insufficient.
He took the cash-box out of the drawer, and turning to leave the shop, became aware that Stevie was still downstairs.
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 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 down by the shade fell dazzlingly on the white pillow sunk by the weight of her head reposing with closed eyes and dark hair done up in several plaits for the night.She woke up with the sound of her name in her ears, and saw her husband standing over her.
`Winnie! Winnie!'
At first she did not stir, lying very quiet and looking at the cash-box in Mr Verloc's hand.But when she understood that her brother was `capering all over the place downstairs' she swung out in one sudden movement on to the edge of the bed.Her bare feet, as if poked through the bottom of an unadorned, sleeved calico sack buttoned tightly at neck and wrists, felt over the rug for the slippers while she looked upward into her husband's face.
`I don't know how to manage him,' Mr Verloc explained, peevishly.`Won't do to leave him downstairs alone with the lights.'
She said nothing, glided across the room swiftly, and the door closed upon her white form.
Mr Verloc deposited the cash-box on the night table, and began the operation of undressing by flinging his overcoat on to a distant chair.His coat and waistcoat followed.He walked about the room in his stockinged feet, and his burly figure, with the hands worrying nervously at his throat, passed and repassed across the long strip of looking-glass in the door of his wife's wardrobe.Then after slipping his braces off his shoulders he pulled up violently the venetian blind, and leaned his forehead against the cold window-pane - a fragile film of glass stretched between him and the enormity of cold, black, wet, muddy, inhospitable accumulation of bricks, slates, and stones, things in themselves unlovely and unfriendly to man.