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 derby
on his knees. The consul went over the papers, viseed them, and handed
them to their owner.
"You will have no trouble going about with those," Carmichael said
listlessly. "How long will you be in Dreiberg?"
"I do not know," said Grumbach truthfully.
"Is there anything I can do for you?"
"There is only one thing," answered Grumbach, "but you may object, and
I shall not blame you if you do.
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