Grumbach
touched the scar tenderly. Could he trust this man? Could he trust any
one in the world? The impulse came to trust Carmichael, and he did not
disregard it.
"I was born in this very street," he whispered.
"Here?"
"Sh! Not so loud! Yes, in this very street. But if the police knew, I
wouldn't be worth _that!_"--with a snap of the fingers. "My passports,
my American citizenship, they would be worthless. You know that."
"But what does this all mean? What have you done that you can't come
back here openly?" Here was a mystery. This man with the kindly face and
frank eyes could be no ordinary criminal. "Can I help you in any way?"
"No; no one can help me."
"But why did you come back? You were safe enough in New York."
"Who can say what a man will do? Don't question me. Let be. I have said
too much already. Some day perhaps I shall tell you why. When I went
away I was thin and pale and had yellow hair. To-day I am fat,
gray-headed; I have made money. Who will recognize me now? No one."
"But your name?"
Grumbach laughed unmusically. "Grumbach is as good as another. Listen.
You are my comrade now; we have shed our blood on the same field. There
is no tie stronger than that. When I left Dreiberg there was a reward of
a thousand crowns for me.
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