“The object of her visits is gone,” Gretchen answered sadly.

“My luck!” exclaimed Carmichael ruefully.

“I am always building houses of cards.  I don’t suppose I shall ever reform.”

“Are you not afraid to walk about in this part of the town so late?” put in the vintner, who was impatient to be gone.

“Afraid?  Of what?  Thieves?  Bah, my little man, I carry a sword-stick, and moreover I know how to use it tolerably well.  Good night.”  And he swung along easily, whistling an air from The Barber of Seville.

The insolence in Carmichael’s tone set the vintner’s ears a-burning, but he swallowed his wrath.

“I like him,” Gretchen declared, as she stopped before the house.

“Why?” jealously.

“Because he is always like that; pleasant, never ruffled, kindly.  He will make a good husband to some woman.”

The vintner shrugged.  He was not patient to-night.

“Who is this mysterious woman?”

“I am not free to tell you.”

“Oh!”

“Leopold, what is the matter with you to-night?  You act like a boy.”

“Perhaps the police muddle is to blame.  Besides, every time I see this man Carmichael I feel like a baited dog.”

“In Heaven’s name, why?”

“Nothing that I can remember.  But I have asked you a question.”

“And I have declined to answer that question.  All my secrets are yours, but this one is another’s.”

“Is it her highness?”

Gretchen fingered the latch suggestively.

“I am wrong, Gretchen; you are right.  Kiss me!”

She liked the tone; she liked the kisses, too, though they hurt.

“Good night, my man!” she whispered.

“Good night, my woman!  To-morrow night at eight.”

He turned and ran lightly and swiftly up the street.  Gretchen remained standing in the doorway till she could see him no more.  Why should he run like that?  She raised the latch and went inside.

From the opposite doorway a mountaineer, a carter, a butcher, and a baker stepped cautiously forth.

“He heard something,” said the mountaineer.  “He has ears like a rat for hearing.  What a pretty picture!” cynically.  “All the world loves a lover—­sometimes.  Touching scene!”

No one replied; no one was expected to reply; more than that, no one cared to court the fury which lay thinly disguised in the mountaineer’s tones.

“To-morrow night; you heard what he said.  I am growing weary of this play.  You will stop him on his way to yonder house.  A closed carriage will be at hand.  Before he enters, remember.  She watches him too long when he leaves.  Fool!”

The quartet stole along in the darkness, noiselessly and secretly.