Acting on a sudden inspiration, he took a cigarette from his case, and struck a match.
"Eh, monsieur, it is forbidden to smoke," cried the officer sternly.
At the same time he nodded his head towards the placard "Défense de fumer" affixed to the wall.
"Ah! Pardon! Forbidden! So it is," said Burton, who was shading the lighted match within his rounded palm from the wind. He made as if to throw it away, but with a dexterous cast dropped it flaming into the open bag. Instantly there was a puff and whizz, and a column of thick suffocating smoke spurted up to the roof. The officer started back with an execration. A lady shrieked; others of the passengers took to their heels. The air was full of pungent fumes and lurid exclamations, and in the confusion the owner of the bag quietly slipped away into the darkness. Burton stood his ground. His task was done. Every particle of Micklewright's explosive that had left the shores of England was dissipated in gas. The secret was saved.
"I give him in charge"
Choking and spluttering the officer dashed forward, shaking his fist in Burton's face, mingling terms of Gallic abuse with explosive cries for the police. A gendarme came up.
"I give him in charge," shouted the officer, with gesticulations. "It is forbidden to smoke; see, the place is full of smoke! The other man; where is he? It is a conspiracy. They are anarchists. Arrest the villain!"
"Monsieur will please come with me," said the gendarme, touching Burton on the sleeve.
"All right," said Burton cheerfully. "I can smoke as we go along?"