then as now acceptable that
side of the Rhine. It was not done with pomposity, but rather with the
exuberance of a man whose purse and letter of credit possess an assuring
circumference.

"Drink a bottle, you and your comrade," he said.

This the officer promised to do forthwith. He returned the passports,
put a hand to his cap respectfully and, followed by his assistant,
walked off briskly.

Grumbach took off his derby and wiped the perspiration from his
forehead. This moisture had not been wrung forth by any atmospheric
effect. From the top of his forehead to the cowlick on the back of his
head ran a broad white scar. At one time or another Grumbach had been on
the ragged edge of the long journey. He went out of doors. There is
nothing like sunshine to tonic the ebbing courage.

Coming up the thoroughfare, with a dash of spirit and color, was a small
troop of horses. The sunlight broke upon the steel and silver. A waiter,
cleaning off the little iron tables on the sidewalk, paused. The riders
passed, all but two in splendid uniforms. Grumbach watched them till
they disappeared into the palace courtyard. He called to the waiter.

"Who are they?"

"The grand duke and some of his staff, Herr."

"The grand duke? Who was the gentleman in civilian clothes?"

"That was his excellency, Herr Carmichael, the American consul."

"Very good. And the young lady?"

"Her serene highness, the Princess Hildegarde."

"Bring me a glass of beer," said Grumbach, sinking down at a table. A
thousand questions surged against his lips, but he kept them shut with
all the stolidity of his native blood. When the waiter set the beer down
before him, he said: "Where does Herr Carmichael live?"

"The consulate is in the Adlergasse. He himself lives here at the Grand
Hotel. _Ach_! He is a great man, Herr Carmichael."

"So?"

"A friend of the grand duke, a friend of her serene highness, liked
everywhere, a fine shot and a great fencer, and rides a horse as if he
were sewn to the saddle. And all the ladies admire him because he
dances."

"So he dances? Quite a lady's man." To Grumbach a man who danced was a
lady's man, something to be held in contempt.

"You would not call him a lady's man, if you mean he wastes his time on
them."

"But you say he dances?"

"_Ach, Gott!_ Don't we all dance to some tune or other?" cried the
waiter philosophically.

"You are right; different music, different jigs. Take the coppers."

"Thanks,