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 to
mine.

His nationality I could not determine. He spoke in a deep guttural
voice 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 in the next compartment,
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 in the _wagon-restaurant_, I found him
placed at the same 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 talked 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. At first the _maitre d'hotel_ bustled
about to do the bidding of the newcomer, but very quickly summed him
up, and only grinned knowingly when called to listen to his biting
sarcasm of the Compagnie Internationale des Wagons-Lit 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, 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