"Yes," she whispered, invisible.
"I wouldn't have believed it possible," he muttered. "Nobody would." She
heard him move about and the snapping of a lock in the parlour door.
Comrade Ossipon had turned the key on Mr Verloc's repose; and this he did
not from reverence for its eternal nature or any other obscurely
sentimental consideration, but for the precise reason that he was not at
all sure that there was not someone else hiding somewhere in the house.
He did not believe the woman, or rather he was incapable by now of
judging what could be true, possible, or even probable in this astounding
universe. He was terrified out of all capacity for belief or disbelief
in regard of this extraordinary affair, which began with police
inspectors and Embassies and would end goodness knows where--on the
scaffold for someone. He was terrified at the thought that he could not
prove the use he made of his time ever since seven o'clock, for he had
been skulking about Brett Street. He was terrified at this savage woman
who had brought him in there, and would probably saddle him with
complicity, at least if he were not careful. He was terrified at the
rapidity with which he had been involved in such dangers--decoyed into
it. It was some twenty minutes since he had met her--not more.
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