At Vienna tickets were collected from the passengers as they left the station. I had determined to make a great effort to retain mine, of all my papers the most important next to my passport. As I was about to pass through the barrier, an official held out his hand for my ticket. I explained to him that as I had been a passenger on the Balkan Express I was anxious for sentimental reasons to retain it. I gilded my remarks with a tip of five kronen, which seemed to satisfy him, as he very kindly tore off a portion of the ticket and returned to me the remainder. But for this official venality I should not have been able to reproduce this valuable evidence in this volume. My journey from Vienna to Constantinople by way of Bucharest had occupied five days. The opening of the direct Vienna-Constantinople line reduces this to two nights and two days--50 hours, to be exact. Even now the train arrives at the various stations with remarkable punctuality, always within five minutes of the scheduled time, which in itself is a triumph for German organisation. CHAPTER XII FRENCH THOROUGHNESS I Leave Vienna--I am Ordered Back--I Risk Proceeding on My Journey--A Friendly Hungarian Officer--Over the Swiss Frontier--My Frankness My Undoing--The French Super-Official--I am Detained Somewhere in France--My Protests Unavailing--I am Suspected of the Plague--Left Behind--_The Daily Mail_ to the Rescue--Profuse Apologies--I Proceed to Paris--“You Will Never Convince England”--London at Last--Rest. I had only four hours in Vienna, and in that time there was a great deal to do, which I had better not detail here lest I get someone into trouble. The train for Feldkirch, the station on the Austrian-Swiss frontier from which I had set out a few weeks previously, was just on the point of starting when I climbed into the carriage, my hand luggage being bundled in behind me. I was beginning to breathe more freely now that I was on my way to a neutral country. At the end of about an hour, when I really felt justified in congratulating myself upon being practically safe, an official came through to my compartment of the train, asking to see the passport of each passenger. He examined mine with that slow and irritating deliberation peculiar to these officials, and, looking up suddenly, said: “This has not been signed by the police.” “What police?” I inquired. “The police of Vienna,” he responded. “Surely that is not necessary,” I remarked. “I only arrived by the Balkan Express at three o’clock, and had my passport stamped at the station.” It will be remembered that I had insisted upon this being done, foreseeing possible difficulties. “I am afraid,” he said, “that you will have to get out at the next station and go back.” He was extremely polite, but very firm.