Next day, at Semlin, where our passports were examined, the passport officer took off his hat to him, bowed low and _vised_ his passport without question, saying, as he handed back the document to its owner: "Bon voyage, Highness." I stared at the pair. My fussy friend with the big head must therefore be either a prince or a grand duke! As I sat opposite him at dinner that night, he was discussing with me the harmful writings of some newly discovered Swiss author who was posing as a cheap philosopher, and denouncing them as dangerous to the community. He leaned his elbow upon the narrow table and supported his clean-shaven chin upon his fingers, displaying to me--most certainly by accident--the palm of his thin right hand. What I discovered there caused me a great deal of surprise. In its center was a dark, livid mark, as though it had been branded there by a hot iron, the plain and distinct imprint of a pet dog's pad! It fascinated me. There was some hidden meaning in that mark, I felt convinced. It was just as though a small dog had stepped in blood with one of its forepaws and trodden upon his hand. Whether he noticed that I had detected it or not, I cannot say, but he moved his hand quickly, and ever after kept it closed. His name, he told me, was Konstantinos Vassos, and he lived in Athens. But I took that information _cum grano_, for I instinctively knew him to be a prince traveling incognito. Before the passport officer at Semlin, every one must pass before entering Serbia. But if actually a prince, why did he carry a passport? There is no good hotel at Sofia. The best is called the Grand Hotel de Bulgarie, kept by a pleasant old lady, and in this we found ourselves next night installed. He, of course, gave his name as Vassos, and to all intents and purposes was more of a stranger in the Bulgarian capital than I myself was, for I had been there previously once just before the war. Now Rayne had given me a letter of introduction to a certain Nicolas Titeroff, who contrived rather mysteriously to get me elected to the smart diplomats' club--the Union--during my stay. The days passed. From the first morning of my arrival I found myself at once in the vortex of gayety; invitations poured in upon me--thanks to the black-bearded Titeroff--cards for dances here and there and receptions and dinners, while I spent each afternoon with Titeroff and a wandering Englishman named Mayhew, who told me he was an ex-colonel in the British Army. All the while, I must confess, I was working my cards carefully. Thanks to the mysterious Titeroff I had received an introduction to Nicholas Petkoff, the grave, grey-haired Minister of Finance, who had early in life lost his right arm at the battle of the Shipka Pass--and he was inclined to admit my proposals. A French syndicate had approached him, but Petkoff would have none of them.