"Conrad, Joseph - The Secret Agent" - читать интересную книгу автора (Conrad Joseph)

Square written on it in black letters. Chesham Square was at least
sixty yards away, and Mr Verloc, cosmopolitan enough not to be
deceived by London's topographical mysteries, held on steadily,
without a sign of surprise or indignation. At last, with business-
like persistency, he reached the Square, and made diagonally for
the number 10. This belonged to an imposing carriage gate in a
high, clean wall between two houses, of which one rationally enough
bore the number 9 and the other was numbered 37; but the fact that
this last belonged to Porthill Street, a street well known in the
neighbourhood, was proclaimed by an inscription placed above the
ground-floor windows by whatever highly efficient authority is
charged with the duty of keeping track of London's strayed houses.
Why powers are not asked of Parliament (a short act would do) for
compelling those edifices to return where they belong is one of the
mysteries of municipal administration. Mr Verloc did not trouble
his head about it, his mission in life being the protection of the
social mechanism, not its perfectionment or even its criticism.

It was so early that the porter of the Embassy issued hurriedly out
of his lodge still struggling with the left sleeve of his livery
coat. His waistcoat was red, and he wore knee-breeches, but his
aspect was flustered. Mr Verloc, aware of the rush on his flank,
drove it off by simply holding out an envelope stamped with the
arms of the Embassy, and passed on. He produced the same talisman
also to the footman who opened the door, and stood back to let him
enter the hall.

A clear fire burned in a tall fireplace, and an elderly man
standing with his back to it, in evening dress and with a chain
round his neck, glanced up from the newspaper he was holding spread
out in both hands before his calm and severe face. He didn't move;
but another lackey, in brown trousers and claw-hammer coat edged
with thin yellow cord, approaching Mr Verloc listened to the murmur
of his name, and turning round on his heel in silence, began to
walk, without looking back once. Mr Verloc, thus led along a
ground-floor passage to the left of the great carpeted staircase,
was suddenly motioned to enter a quite small room furnished with a
heavy writing-table and a few chairs. The servant shut the door,
and Mr Verloc remained alone. He did not take a seat. With his
hat and stick held in one hand he glanced about, passing his other
podgy hand over his uncovered sleek head.

Another door opened noiselessly, and Mr Verloc immobilising his
glance in that direction saw at first only black clothes, the bald
top of a head, and a drooping dark grey whisker on each side of a
pair of wrinkled hands. The person who had entered was holding a
batch of papers before his eyes and walked up to the table with a
rather mincing step, turning the papers over the while. Privy
Councillor Wurmt, Chancelier d'Ambassade, was rather short-sighted.
This meritorious official laying the papers on the table, disclosed