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.
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