There were only four or five passengers, and I knew that across the Danube the Roumanian train taking me on to Bucharest would be practically empty. And so it proved, for after landing, getting my passport viséd and my baggage through the Roumanian Customs, I walked to the train, to find it empty, lit only by dim flickering oil-lamps, which gave scarcely sufficient light to see into the corners of the compartments.
I looked back, and yes, surely enough, the spy was following me! I was alone, for I had sent my servant on to Bucharest by the morning train. I got into a compartment, and presently, after some manœuvring, he got in with me. I was annoyed, but I had my weapon in my outside pocket, and intended to fire through my pocket if he attempted to attack me, or get at my despatch-box on the seat at my side.
Calmly he lit a cigarette, then inquired in French—which he spoke excellently—
“M’sieur is going on to Bucharest? Ah! what a wretched train service—eh? I suppose you go on to Constantinople?”
I looked him straight in the face and replied—
“My destination is no affair of yours, m’sieur. And I have neither desire nor intention that you should follow me any farther. You must think I’m blind. I saw you in Servia a dozen times, and in Bulgaria afterwards, and here you are in Roumania! Your game may be interesting to yourself, but it is annoying to me, I can assure you—very annoying.”
Snap-shots in Bucharest.
The fellow looked aghast. He was not clever at all; for he stammered something in Hungarian, and then, in French, declared that he had never followed me. We had met and re-met by accident, he assured me. That was all.