“Your pardon, sir,” he said in good English, “but you are Mr. Carmichael, the American consul?”

“I am.”

“Will you kindly look over my papers?” Grumbach asked.

“You are from the United States?” Then Carmichael remembered that this must be the compatriot who arrived the night before.  “I shall be very glad to see you in the Adlergasse at half after ten.  It is one flight up, next door to the Black Eagle.  Any one will show you the way.  I haven’t breakfasted yet, and I can not transact any business in these dusty clothes.  Good morning.”

Grumbach liked the consul’s smile.  More than that, he recognized instantly that this handsome young man was a gentleman.  The inherent respect for caste had not been beaten out of Grumbach’s blood; he had come from a brood in a peasant’s hovel.  To him the word gentleman would always signify birth and good clothes; what the heart and mind were did not matter much.

He had more than an hour to idle away, so he wandered through the park, admiring the freshness of the green, the well-kept flower-beds, the crisp hedges, and the clean graveled paths.  There was nothing like it back there in America.  They hadn’t the time there; everybody was in the market, speculating in bubbles.  He admired the snowy fountains, too, and the doves that darted in and out of the wind-blown spray.  There was nothing like this in America, either.  He was not belittling; he was only making comparisons.  He knew that he would be far happier in his adopted country, which would accomplish all these beautiful things farther on.

He looked up heavenward, where the three bergs shouldered the dazzling snow into the blue.  This impressed him more than all else; that little wrinkle in the middle berg’s ice 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  Nothing had changed in Dreiberg save the Koenig Strasse, whose cobbles had been replaced by smooth blocks of wood.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.