I produce my pocket-book, extract my passport, and present it to him.
His expression has changed. He takes the document and examines it, turns it over, looks at me, and smiles that faint smile of his again.
"Have some more," I say, and proffer the card of the T.C.F.
I follow up that blow with my green British Museum ticket, as tattered as a flag in a knight's chapel.
"You'll get found out," he says, with my documents in his hand. "You've got your thumbs. You'll be measured. They'll refer to the central registers, and there you'll be!"