A step?  He trained his ear.  But even as he did so his arms were grasped firmly and twisted behind his back, and at the same time a cloth was wrapped round the lower part of his face, leaving only his eyes and nose visible.  It was all so sudden and unexpected that he was passive the first few seconds; after that there was some scuffling, strenuous, too.  He was fighting against three.  Desperately he surged this way and that.  Even in the heat of battle he wondered a little why no one struck him; they simply clung to him, and at length he could not move.  His hands were tied, not roughly, but surely.  In all this commotion, not a whisper, not a voice; only heavy breathing.

Then one of the three whistled.  A minute or two after a closed carriage came into the Krumerweg, and Carmichael was literally bundled inside.  His feet were now bound.  Two of his captors sat on the forward seat, while the third joined the driver.  Carmichael could distinguish nothing but outlines and shadows.  He choked, for he was furious.  To be trussed like this, without any explanation whatever!  What the devil was going on?  Unanswered.

The carriage began to move slowly.  It had to; swift driving in the Krumerweg was hardly possible and at no time safe.  Carmichael set himself to note the turns of the street.  One turn after another he counted, fixing as well as he could the topography of the town through which they were passing.  At last he realized that they were leaving Dreiberg behind and were going down the mountain on the north side, toward Jugendheit.  Once the level road was reached, a fast pace was set and maintained for miles.  At the Ehrenstein barrier no question was asked, and Carmichael’s one hope was shattered.  At the Jugendheit barrier the carriage stopped.  There were voices.  Carmichael saw the flicker of a lantern.  His captors got out.  Presently there appeared at the door an old man dressed as a mountaineer.  In his hand was the lantern.

“Pardon me, dear nephew—­Fools!” he broke off, swinging round.  “He has tricked you all.  This is not he!”

Three astonished faces peered over the old man’s shoulder.  Carmichael eyed them evilly.  He now saw that one was a carter, another a butcher, and the third a baker.  He had seen them before, in the Black Eagle.  But this signified nothing.

“Untie him and take off that rag.  It may be Scharfenstein.”  The old man possessed authority.

Carmichael, freed, stretched himself.

“Well?” he said, with a dangerous quiet.

“Herr Carmichael, the American consul!” The old man nearly dropped the lantern.  “Oh, you infernal blockheads!”

“Explanations are in order,” suggested Carmichael.

“You are offered a thousand apologies for a stupid mistake.  Now, may I ask how you came to be dressed in these clothes on this particular night?”

Carmichael’s anger dissolved, and he laughed.  All the mystery was gone with the abruptness of a mist under the first glare of the sun.  He saw how neatly he had been duped.  He still carried the note.  This he gave to the leader of this midnight expedition.