tonic to my present state of mind."

He was standing on the curb in front of the hotel, his decision still
unrounded, when he noticed a closed carriage hard by the fountain in
the Platz. The driver dozed on his box.

"Humph! There's a man who is never troubled with counting the fool's
beads. Silver and copper are his gods and goddesses. Ha! a fare!"

A woman in black, thoroughly veiled and cloaked, came round from the
opposite side of the fountain. She spoke to the driver, and he tumbled
off the box, alive and hearty. There seemed to be a short interchange of
words of mutual satisfaction. The lady stepped into the carriage, the
driver woke up his ancient Bucephalus, and went clickety-clack down the
König Strasse toward the town.

To Carmichael it was less than an incident. He twirled his cane and
walked toward the public gardens. Here he strolled about, watching the
people, numerous but orderly, with a bright military patch here and
there. The band struck up again, and he drifted with the crowd toward
the pavilion. The penny-chairs were occupied, so he selected a spot
off-side, near enough for all auditual purposes. One after another he
carelessly scanned the faces of those nearest. He was something of an
amateur physiognomist, but he seldom made the mistakes of the tyro.

Within a dozen feet of him, her arms folded across her breast, her eyes
half shut in the luxury of the senses, stood the goose-girl. He smiled
as he recalled the encounter of that afternoon. It was his habit to ride
to the maneuvers every day, and several times he had noticed her, as
well as any rider is able to notice a pedestrian. But that afternoon her