“A fairy-story.”  The vintner nodded; he understood now.

Carmichael’s glance once more rested on the vintner’s hand.  He would lay another trap.

“What happened to her?”

“Oh,” said Carmichael, “she spilled wine on a god one day, and they banished her.”

“It must have been a rare vintage.”

“I suppose you are familiar with all valleys.  Moselle?”

“Yes.  That is a fine country.”

The old man in tatters sat erect in his chair, but he did not turn his head.

“You have served?”

“A little.  If I could be an officer I should like the army.”  The vintner reached for his pipe which lay on the table.

“Try this,” urged Carmichael, offering his pouch.

“This will be good tobacco, I know.”  The vintner filled his pipe.

Carmichael followed this gift with many questions about wines and vintages; and hidden in these questions were a dozen clever traps.  But the other walked over them, unhesitant, with a certainty of step which chagrined the trapper.

By and by the vintner rose and bade his table-companion a good night.  He had not offered to buy anything, another sign puzzling to Carmichael.  This frugality was purely of the thrifty peasant.  But the vintner was not ungrateful, and he expressed many thanks.  On his way to the door he stopped, whispered into Gretchen’s ear, and passed out into the black street.

“Either he is a fine actor, or he is really what he says he is.”  Carmichael was dissatisfied.  “I’ll stake my chances on being president of the United States, which is safe enough as a wager, that this fellow is not genuine.  I’ll watch him.  I’ve stumbled upon a pretty romance of some sort, but I fear that it is one-sided.”  He wrinkled his forehead, but that part of his recollection he aimed to stir remained fallow, in darkness.

The press in the room was thinning.  There were vacant chairs here and there now.  A carter sauntered past and sat down unconcernedly at the table occupied by the old man whose face Carmichael had not yet seen.  The two exchanged not even so much as a casual nod.  A little later a butcher approached the same table and seated himself after the manner of the carter.  It was only when the dusty baker came along and repeated this procedure, preserving the same silence, that Carmichael’s curiosity was enlivened.  This curiosity, however, was only of the evanescent order.  Undoubtedly they were socialists and this was a little conclave, and the peculiar manner of their meeting, the silence and mystery, were purely fictional.  Socialism at that time revolved round the blowing up of kings, of demolishing established order.  Neither kings were blown up nor order demolished, but it was a congenial topic over which to while away an evening.  This was in the German states; in Russia it was a different matter.