had been there when he was a boy.
Nothing had changed in Dreiberg save the Koenig Strasse, whose cobbles
had been replaced by smooth blocks of wood. At times he sent swift but
uncertain glances toward the palaces. He longed to peer through the
great iron fence, but he smothered this desire. He would find out what
he wanted to know when he met Carmichael at the consulate. Here the bell
in the cathedral struck the tenth hour; not a semitone had this voice of
bronze changed in all these years. It was good to be here in Dreiberg
again. Should he ask the way to the Adlergasse? Perhaps this would be
wiser. So he put the question to a policeman. The officer politely gave
him a detailed route.
"Follow these directions and you will have no trouble in finding the
Adlergasse."
"Much obliged."
Trouble? Scarcely! He had put out his first protest against the world in
the Adlergasse, forty years since. He came to a stand before the old
tavern. Not even the sign had been painted anew, though the oak board
was a trifle paler and there was a little more rust on the hinges. Many
a time he had fought with the various pot-boys. He wondered if there
were any pot-boys inside now. He noted the dingy consulate sign, then
started up the dark and narrow stairs. The consulate door stood open.
A clerk, native to Ehrenstein, was writing at a table. At a desk by the
window sat Carmichael, deep in a volume of Dumas. No one ever hurried
here; no one ever had palpitation of the heart over business. The clerk
lifted his head.
"Mr. Carmichael?" said Grumbach in English.
The clerk indicated with his pen toward the individual by the window.
Carmichael read on. Grumbach had assimilated some Americanisms. He went
boldly over and seated himself in the chair at the side of the desk.
With a sigh Carmichael left Porthos in the grotto of Locmaria.
"I am Mr. Grumbach. I spoke to you this morning about my passports. Will
you kindly look them over?"
Carmichael took the papers, frowning slightly. Grumbach laid his
Notka biograficzna
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