“I can make nothing of this, Herr.  When I cut this out of the paper it was to preserve the notice on the other side.”  The vintner returned the cutting.

The sub-chief read aloud: 

    “Vintners and presses and pruners wanted for the season.  Find and
    liberal compensation.  Apply, Holtz.”

Gretchen laughed joyously; the vintner grinned; the sub-chief swore under his breath.

“The devil fly away with you both!” he cried, making the best of his chagrin.  “And when you marry, don’t invite me to the wedding.”

After they had gone, however, he called for an assistant.

“Did you see that young vintner?”

“Yes.”

“Follow him, night and day.  Find out where he lives and what he does; and ransack his room if possible.  He is either an innocent man or a sleek rascal.  Report to me this time each night.”

“And the girl?”

“Don’t trouble about her.  She is under the patronage of her serene highness.  She’s as right as a die.  It’s the man.  He was too easy; he didn’t show enough concern.  An ordinary vintner would have been frightened.  This fellow smiled.”

“And if I find out anything suspicious?”

“Arrest him out of hand and bring him here at once.”

Alone once more the sub-chief studied the cutting with official thoroughness.  He was finally convinced, by the regularity of the line on the printed side as compared with the irregularity of the line on the advertising side, that the vintner had lied.  And yet there was no proof that he had.

“This young fellow will go far,” he mused, with reluctant admiration.

On reaching the street Gretchen gave rein to her laughter.  What promised to be a tragedy was only a farce.  The vintner laughed, too, but Momus would have criticized his laughter.

The night was not done yet; there were still some more surprises in store for the vintner.  As they turned into the Krumerweg they almost ran into Carmichael.  What was the American consul doing in this part of the town, so near midnight?  Carmichael recognized them both.  He lifted his hat, but the vintner cavalierly refused to respond.

“Herr Carmichael!” said Gretchen.  “And what are you doing here this time of the night?”

“I have been on a fool’s errand,” urbanely.

“And who sent you?”

“The god of fools himself, I guess.  I am looking for a kind of ghost, a specter in black that leaves the palace early in the evening and returns late, whose destination has invariably been forty Krumerweg.”

The vintner started.

“My house?” cried Gretchen.

“Yours?  Perhaps you can dispel this phantom?” said Carmichael.

Gretchen was silent.

“Oh!  You know something.  Who is she?”

“A lady who comes on a charitable errand.  But now she will come no more.”

“And why not?”