So down to the tavern they went, and there they talked the battles over, sundry tankards interpolating.  It was “Do you remember this?” and, “Do you recall that?” with diagrams drawn in beer on the oaken table.

“But there’s one thing, my boy,” said Carmichael.

“What’s that?”

“The odds were on our side, or we’d be fighting yet.”

“That we would.  The poor devils were always hungry when we whipped them badly.”

“But you’re from this side of the water?”

“Yes; went over when I was twenty-two.”  Grumbach sucked his pipe stolidly.

“What part of Germany?”

“Bavaria; it is so written in my passports.”

“Munich?”

Grumbach circled the room.  All the near tables were vacant.  The Black Eagle was generally a lonely place till late in the afternoon.  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.  Dead or alive, preferably dead.”

Carmichael was plainly bewildered.  He tried to recall the past history of Ehrenstein which would offer a niche for this inoffensive-looking German.  He was blocked.

“Dead or alive,” he repeated.

“So.”

“You were mad to return.”

“I know it.  But I had to come; I couldn’t help it.  Oh, don’t look like that!  I never hurt anybody, unless it was in battle”—­naively.  “Ask no more, my friend.  I promise to tell you when the right time comes.  Now, will you get me that invitation to the gallery at the military ball?”

“I will, if you will give me your word, as a soldier, as a comrade in arms, that you have no other purpose than to look at the people.”