The smile over, he opened a book about the size of an atlas, dipped a pen in an inkstand, recorded my point of departure--Cologne, and my point of arrival--Paris; dried the inscription with a pinch of black sand filched from a saucer--same old black sand used in the last century--cut a section of the page with a pair of shears, tossed the coin in the air, listened to its ring on the desk with a satisfied look, slipped the whole twenty-franc piece into his pocket--regular fare, fifteen francs, irregular swindle, five francs--and handed me the billet. Then he added, with a trace of humor in his voice: "If Monsieur the Director of the Circus comes now he will go in the special car." I examined the billet. I had Compartment Number Four, upper berth, Car 312. I lighted a cigarette, gave my small luggage-checks to a porter with directions to deposit my traps in my berth when the train was ready--the company's office was in the depot--and strolled out to look at the station. You know the Cologne station, of course. It is as big as the Coliseum, shaped like an old-fashioned hoop-skirt with a petticoat of glass, and connects with one of the most beautiful bridges in the world. It has two immense waiting-rooms, with historical frescos on the walls and two huge fireplaces supported on nudities shivering with the cold, for no stick of wood ever blazes on the well-swept hearths. It has also a gorgeous restaurant, with panelled ceiling, across which skip bunches of butterfly Cupids in shameless costumes, and an inviting cafe with never-dying palms in the windows, a portrait of the Kaiser over the counter holding the coffee-urn, and a portrait of the Kaiserin over the counter holding the little sticky cakes, the baby bottles of champagne, and the long lady-finger sandwiches with bits of red ham hanging from their open ends like poodle-dogs' tongues. Outside these ponderous rooms, under the arching glass of the station itself, is a broad platform protected from rushing trains and yard engines by a wrought-iron fence, twisted into most enchanting scrolls and pierced down its whole length by sliding wickets, before which stand be-capped and be-buttoned officials of the road. It is part of the duty of these gatemen never to let you through these wickets until the arrival of the last possible moment compatible with the boarding of your car. So if you are wise--that is, if you have been left behind several times depending on the watchfulness of these Cerberi and their promises to let you know when your train is ready--you hang about this gate and keep an eye out as to what is going on. I had been two nights on the sleeper through from Warsaw and beyond, and could take no chances.