Despondent and irritated, he was about to find his way to the nearest hotel for the night, when he suddenly noticed a second portly figure approaching the shed among the file of passengers. The man was hatless; he was bald; he carried a brown leather hand-bag. His collar was limp; his face was clammy, and of that pallid greenish hue which betokens beyond possibility of doubt a severe attack of sea-sickness. At the first glance Burton started; at the second he flushed; then, on the impulse of the moment, he sprang forward, and reaching the side of the flabby passenger at the moment when he placed his bag upon the counter, he laid his hand upon it, and cried-- "My bag, monsieur!" The bald-headed passenger glanced round in mere amazement, clutching his bag. "Excuse me, monsieur," he said quietly, "it is mine." The Customs officer looked from one to the other: the pallid foreigner, limp and nerveless; the ruddy Englishman, eager, strenuous and determined. "Ah! You gave me the warning. You were mistaken," he said to Burton. "The other bag contained only pyjamas, a bottle, and a toothbrush; nothing harmful. Monsieur is too full of zeal; he may be mistaken again. He accuses this gentleman of stealing his bag? Well, that is a matter for the police. I will do my duty, then you can find a policeman. Have you anything to declare?" he concluded in his official tone. "Nothing," said the foreigner. "A thousand cigarettes!" cried Burton at the same moment. Each had still a hand on the bag. At Burton’s words the passenger gave him a startled glance, and Burton knew by the mingled wonder and terror in his eyes that this time he had made no mistake. "Comment! A thousand cigarettes!" repeated the officer. "Messieurs must permit me to open the bag." He drew it from their grasp. It opened merely by a catch. The officer peeped inside, and shot a questioning look at Burton, who bent over, and at a single glance recognised the small yellowish crystals. "That’s it!" he cried in excitement. "Monsieur will perhaps explain," said the officer to the owner of the bag, who appeared to have become quite apathetic. "There are no cigarettes; no; but what is this substance? Is it on the Customs schedule? No. Very well, I must impound it for inquiry." The man, almost in collapse from weakness, began to mumble something. The officer’s remark about impounding the stuff disturbed Burton. If it got into expert hands Micklewright’s secret would be discovered. 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.