But I was much occupied with the piece of scheming which I had undertaken to carry out. My patriotism had led me to attempt a very difficult task--one which would require delicate tact and a good deal of courage and resource, but which would, if successful, mean that a loan of three millions would be raised in London, and that British influence would become paramount in that go-ahead country, which, ere long, must be the power of the Balkans. I knew, however, that there were others in Sofia upon the same errand as myself, emissaries of other governments and other financial houses. Therefore, in the three long never-ending days the journey occupied, my mind was constantly filled with thoughts of the best and most judicious course to pursue in order to attain my object. The run was uneventful, save for one fact. At the Staatsbahnhof, at Vienna, just before our train left for Budapest, a queer, fussy little old man in brown entered, and was given the compartment next mine. His nationality I could not determine. He spoke deep guttural German with the fair-bearded conductor of the train, but by his clothes--which were rather dandified for so old a man--I did not believe him to be a native of the Fatherland. I heard him rumbling about with his bags next door, apparently settling himself, when of a sudden my quick ear caught an imprecation which he uttered to himself in English. A few hours later, at dinner, I found him placed at the little table opposite me, and naturally we began to chat. He spoke in French-- perfect French it was--but refused to speak English, though, of course, he could had he wished. "Ah! non," he laughed, "I cannot. Excuse me. My pronunciation is so faulty. Your English is so ve-ry deefecult." And so we chatted in French, and I found the queer old fellow was on his way to Sofia. He seemed slightly deformed, his face was distinctly ugly, broad, clean-shaven, with a pair of black piercing eyes that gave him a most striking appearance. His grey hair was long, his nose aquiline, his teeth protruding and yellow, and he was a grumbler of the most pronounced type. He growled at the food, at the service, at the draughts, at the light in the restaurant, at the staleness of the bread we had brought with us from Paris, and at the butter, which he declared to be only Danish margarine. His complaints were amusing. He was possessed of much grim humour. At first the _maitre d'hotel_ bustled about to do the bidding of the new-comer, but very quickly summed him up, and only grinned knowingly when called to listen to his biting criticism of the Compagnie Internationale des Wagons-lits and all its works. 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_, Altesse."