“Police at the gates,” mused Carmichael, as he soaked his head and face in cold water.  “By George, it looks as if my friend the vintner was in for some excitement!  Far be it that I should warn him.  He had his little joke; I can wait for mine.”

Gretchen!  Carmichael stopped, his collar but half-way around his throat.  Gretchen, brave, kindly, beautiful Gretchen!  Now, by the Lord, that should not be!  He would wring the vintner’s neck.  He snapped the collar viciously.  He was not in an amiable mood this fair September morning.  And when some one hammered on the door he called sharply.

Grumbach entered.

“You are angry about something,” he said.

“So I am, but you are always welcome.”

“You have overslept?”

“No; on the contrary.”

“Poker?”

“After a fashion,” said Carmichael, the grumble gone from his voice.  “I was beaten by three of a kind.”

“So?”

“But I found a good hand later.”

“Kings.”

“Four?”

“Oh, no; only one.  I haven’t drawn yet.”

“You are not telling me all.”

“No.  You are going to the ball to-night?”

“I would not miss it for five thousand crowns,” sadly.

“You look as if you were going to a funeral instead of the greatest event of the year in Dreiberg.”

“I didn’t sleep well either.”

“Out?”

“No; one does not have to go out in order not to sleep.”

“I’d like to know what’s going on in that bullet-head of yours.”

“Nothing is going on; everything has stopped.”

“Can’t you make a confidant of me, Hans?”

“Not yet, Captain.”

“When you are ready it may be too late.  I leave Dreiberg for good in a few weeks.”

“No!” For the first time Grumbach showed interest.

“I have resigned the consulship.”

“And for what reason?”

Carmichael silently drew on his coat.

"Ach! So you have one, too?”

“One what?”

“One secret.”

“Yes.  But it’s the kind we can’t talk about.”

“I understand.  Have you had breakfast?”

“Neither have I. Let us go together.  It may be we need each other’s company this morning.  You and I won’t have to bother about talking.”

“You make a good comrade, Hans.”

* * * * *

There was a large crowd outside the palace that night, which was clear and starry.  A troop of cavalry patrolled the fence.  Carriage after carriage rolled in through the gates, coming directly from the opera.  It was eleven o’clock.  All the great in the duchy were on hand that night.  Often a cheer rose from the ranks of the outsiders as some popular general or some famous beauty passed.  It was an orderly crowd, jostling and good-natured, held only by curiosity.  Every window in the palace presented a glowing square of light; and beams crisscrossed the emerald lawns and died in the arms of the lurking shadows.  The gardens were illuminated besides.  It was fairy-land, paid for by those who were not entitled to enter.  Few, however, thought of this inconsistency.  A duchy is a duchy; nothing more need be said.