Taking out my long neglected case, I placed a cigarette between my lips, and asked the driver for some matches.
He passed me a wooden box. I struck several, but each went out in the high wind before igniting the tobacco.
I was making another attempt as the droshky drew up outside the steps of the Custom House. I dismounted negligently, while one of the officials came and clutched my luggage. Then I walked slowly up the steps, pausing in the porch to strike a fresh match.
A porter snatched the box from my hand. “Smoking is forbidden,” he said roughly. “Wait till you are out again.”
I shrugged my shoulders, pinched the burning end of the cigarette, which I retained in my mouth, and sauntered with an air of supreme indifference after the man who was carrying my bag.
He led me into a room in which a severe-looking official was seated at a desk.
“Your papers,” he demanded.
I produced the papers with which I had been furnished by Rostoy.
The customs official scrutinized them, evidently in the hope of discovering some flaw.