Then, like a flash, each of the occasions I had seen him came back to me. Not only had he followed me in Sofia, but I now recollected having seen him in Belgrade and in Zimony. The fellow was a spy—Austrian without a doubt. It was not my first acquaintance with spies. I had met many of them in the course of my wanderings up and down Europe. Some, indeed, are among my personal acquaintances. Until you travel in the Balkans, and more especially if you are having interviews with Ministers and officials, you can have no idea of the audacity and activity of Austria’s secret agents. They swarm everywhere. The Grand Hotel at Belgrade is full of them, and in Sofia they also flourish as part of the great secret army which the Austrian Government keeps in the East, from Zimony right down to Constantinople. It was a bitterly cold night, with slight drizzling rain. The spy was standing on deck in the shadow at a little distance from me. The recollection that I had with me a quantity of official documents given and lent to me by the Servian and Bulgarian Governments was the reverse of reassuring. I felt in my pocket for my revolver. Yes, the handy little weapon was ready for use, in case of necessity. There were only four or five passengers, and I knew that across the Danube the Roumanian train taking me on to Bucharest would be practically empty. And so it proved, for after landing, getting my passport _viséd_ and my baggage through the Roumanian Customs, I walked to the train, to find it empty, lit only by dim flickering oil-lamps, which gave scarcely sufficient light to see into the corners of the compartments. I looked back, and yes, surely enough, the spy was following me! I was alone, for I had sent my servant on to Bucharest by the morning train. I got into a compartment, and presently, after some manœuvring, he got in with me. I was annoyed, but I had my weapon in my outside pocket, and intended to fire through my pocket if he attempted to attack me, or get at my despatch-box on the seat at my side. Calmly he lit a cigarette, then inquired in French—which he spoke excellently— “M’sieur is going on to Bucharest? Ah! what a wretched train service—eh? I suppose you go on to Constantinople?” I looked him straight in the face and replied— “My destination is no affair of yours, m’sieur. And I have neither desire nor intention that you should follow me any farther. You must think I’m blind. I saw you in Servia a dozen times, and in Bulgaria afterwards, and here you are in Roumania! Your game may be interesting to yourself, but it is annoying to me, I can assure you—very annoying.” [Illustration] [Illustration: Snap-shots in Bucharest.] The fellow looked aghast. He was not clever at all; for he stammered something in Hungarian, and then, in French, declared that he had never followed me. We had met and re-met by accident, he assured me. That was all.