His judgment, perhaps, had been momentarily obscured by his dread of Mr Vladimir's truculent folly.

A man somewhat over forty may be excusably thrown into considerable disorder by the prospect of losing his employment, especially if the man is a secret agent of political police, dwelling secure in the consciousness of his high value and in the esteem of high personages.

He was excusable.
Now the thing had ended in a crash.

Mr Verloc was cool; but he was not cheerful.

A secret agent who throws his secrecy to the winds from desire of vengeance, and flaunts his achievements before the public eye, becomes the mark for desperate and bloodthirsty indignations.