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.

The mission entrusted to me by Rayne was one which, if I could obtain
the Government Concession which I asked, would mean the formation of a
grea