“Our people at home have recently been playing an amusing little game at your expense, haven’t they?” he laughed, passing over to me his silver cigarette case and selecting one himself when I gave it back to him.
“I believe they have,” I answered.
“I would have given anything to have seen the look on your old chief’s face when first he heard that we were going to declare war,” he laughed. “How did he take it? You had a rough half-hour, I expect.”
“Of course,” I smiled. “Things looked so serious.”
“Yes, so they did,” he admitted, his face growing grave. “I quite expected that we should have to pack up our baggage and go back to St Petersburg. The fact is it’s a puzzle to us why the Imperial declaration wasn’t actually published. A hitch somewhere, I suppose.”
“Fortunately for us—eh?” I observed, lighting up calmly. He imported his own cigarettes, and they were always excellent.
“Yes,” he answered, adding after a moment’s reflection, “but why have you come to me now that we are officially at daggers drawn?”
“Only officially are we bad friends,” I said. “Personally we shall be on good terms always, I hope, Paul. It was because I know I can count upon your assistance that I’ve come to ask you a favour.”
“Ask away, old chap,” he said, deftly twisting his cigarette in his fingers, afterwards placing it between his lips.
“I have a friend who wants to go to Russia, and desires a passport.”