ht upon
the puzzle regarding the vintner. He had met the fellow before. But
where?

"What sort of clothes does a vintner wear?" he asked.

"A vintner, your Excellency?"

"Yes. I shall need the costume of a vintner this evening."

"Oh, that will be easy," affirmed the concierge, "if your excellency
does not mind wearing clothes that have already been worn."

"My excellency will not care a hang. Procure them as soon as you can."

So it came about that Carmichael, dressed as a vintner, his hat over his
eyes, stole into the misty night and took the way to the Krumerweg. He
knew exactly where he wished to go: number forty. It was gray-black in
the small streets; and but for the occasional light in a window the dark
would have had no modification. Sometimes he would lose the point of the
compass and blunder against a wall or find himself feeling for the curb,
hesitant of foot. The wayside shrine was a rift in the gloom, and he
knew that he had only a few more steps to take. After all, who was the
lady in black and why should he bother himself about her? She probably
came from the back stairs of the palace. And yet, the chancellor himself
had been in this place. What should he do? Should he wait across the
street? Should he knock at the door and ask to be admitted? No; he must
skulk in the dark, on the opposite side. He picked his way over the
street and stood for a moment in the denser black.

A step? He trained his ear. But even as he did so his arms were grasped
firmly and twisted behind his back, and at the same time a cloth was
wrapped round the lower part of his face, leaving only his eyes and nose
visible. It was all so sudden and unexpected that he was passive the
first few seconds; after that there was some scuffling, strenuous, too.
He was fighting against three. Desperately he surged this way and that.
Even in the heat of battle he wondered a little why no one struck him;
they simply clung to him, and at length he could not move. His hands
were tied, not roughly, but surely. In all this commotion, not a
whisper, not a voice; only heavy breathing.

Then one of the three whistled. A minute or two after a closed carriage
came into the Krumerweg, and Carmichael was literally bundled inside.
His feet were now bound. Two of his captors sat on the forward seat,
while the third joined the driver. Carmichael could distinguish nothing
but outlines and shadows. He choked, for he was furious. To be trussed
like this, w