"Like treacle," interjected the Professor, rather low, keeping an
impassive expression.
The perplexed Ossipon went on communing with himself half audibly, after
the manner of a man reflecting in perfect solitude.
"Confounded ass! To leave such an imbecile business on my hands. And I
don't even know if--"
He sat with compressed lips. The idea of going for news straight to the
shop lacked charm. His notion was that Verloc's shop might have been
turned already into a police trap. They will be bound to make some
arrests, he thought, with something resembling virtuous indignation, for
the even tenor of his revolutionary life was menaced by no fault of his.
And yet unless he went there he ran the risk of remaining in ignorance of
what perhaps it would be very material for him to know. Then he
reflected that, if the man in the park had been so very much blown to
pieces as the evening papers said, he could not have been identified. And
if so, the police could have no special reason for watching Verloc's shop
more closely than any other place known to be frequented by marked
anarchists--no more reason, in fact, than for watching the doors of the
Silenus. There would be a lot of watching all round, no matter where he
went. Still--
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