"What name?" indifferently. Compatriots were always asking impossible
things of Carmichael, introductions to the grand duke, invitations to
balls, and so forth, and swearing to have him recalled if he refused to
perform these offices.
The concierge picked up the slips which were to be forwarded to the
police.
"He is Hans Grumbach, of New York."
"An adopted compatriot, it would seem. He'll probably be over to the
consulate to-morrow to have his passports looked into. Good night."
So Hans Grumbach passed out of his mind; but for all that, fortune and
opportunity were about to knock on Carmichael's door. For there was a
great place in history ready for Hans Grumbach.
CHAPTER VI
AT THE BLACK EAGLE
The day promised to be mild. There was not a cloud anywhere, and the
morning mists had risen from the valleys. It was good to stand in the
sunshine which seemed to draw forth all the vagaries and weariness of
sleep from the mind and body. Hans Grumbach shook himself gratefully. He
was standing on the curb in front of the Grand Hotel, his back to the
sun. It was nine o'clock. The broad Koenig Strasse shone, the white stone
of the palaces glared, the fountains glistened, and the coloring tree
tops scintillated like the head-dress of an Indian prince. Hans was
short but strongly built; a mild blue-eyed German, smooth-faced,
ruddy-cheeked, white-haired, with a brown button of a nose. He drank his
beer with the best of them, but it never got so far as his nose save
from the outside. His suit was tight-fitting, but the checks were
ample, and the watch-chain a little too heavy, and the huge garnet on
his third finger was not in good taste. But what's the odds? Grumbach
was satisfied, and it's one's own satisfaction that counts most.
Presently two police officers came along and went into the hotel.
Grumbach turned with a sigh and followed them. Doubtless they had come
to look over his passports. And this happened to be the case.
The senior officer unfolded the precious docu
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