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 Hôtel 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 great company and a matter of millions. And it seemed to me that my black-bearded friend Titeroff, and Mayhew, were both pulling the strings cleverly for me in the right direction. Often I considered whether they were both crooks and members of the gang organized by Rayne. I could not determine.
One night at the weekly dance at the Military Club—a function at which the smart set of Sofia always attend, and at which the Ministers of State themselves with their women-folk put in an appearance—I had been waltzing with the Minister Petkoff’s daughter, a pretty, dark-haired girl in blue, whom I had met at Titeroff’s house—when presently the Turkish attaché, a pale-faced young man in a fez, introduced me to a tall, very handsome, sweet-faced girl in a black evening gown.
Mademoiselle Balesco was her name, and I found her inexpressibly charming. She spoke French perfectly, and English quite well. She had been at school in England, she said—at Scarborough. Her home was at Galatz, in Roumania.