The Secret Agent: A Simple Tale

Mr Verloc, going out in the morning, left his shop nominally in charge of his brother-inlaw. It could be done, because there was very little business at any time, and practicallynone at all before the evening. Mr Verloc cared but little about his ostensiblebusiness. And, moreover, his wife was in charge of his brother-in-law.The shop was small, and so was the house. It was one of those grimy brick houses whichexisted in large quantities before the era of reconstruction dawned upon London. The shopwas a square box of a place, with the front glazed in small panes. In the daytime the doorremained closed; in the evening it stood discreetly but suspiciously ajar.The window contained photographs of more or less undressed dancing girls; nondescriptpackages in wrappers like patent medicines; closed yellow paper envelopes, very flimsy, and marked two-and-six in heavy black figures; a few numbers of ancient French comicpublications hung across a string as if to dry; a dingy blue china bowl, a casket of blackwood, bottles of marking ink, and rubber stamps; a few books, with titles hinting atimpropriety; a few apparently old copies of obscure newspapers, badly printed, with titleslike The Torch, The Gong-rousing titles. And the two gas jets inside the panes were alwaysturned low, either for economy's sake or for the sake of the customers