Gretchen extended her hand and Carmichael took it in his own, inspecting
it.

"Why do you do that?"

"It is a good hand; it is strong, too."

"It has to be strong, Herr. Good night."

Carmichael raised his hat again, and Gretchen breathed contentedly as
she saw him disappear in the crowd. That little act of courtesy made
everything brighter. There was only one other who ever touched his hat
to her respectfully. And as she stood there, dreaming over the unusual
happenings of the day, she felt an arm slip through hers, gently but
firmly, even with authority. Her head went round.

"Leo?" she whispered.

The young vintner whom Carmichael had pushed against the wall that day
smiled from under the deep shade of his hat, drawn down well over his
face.

"Gretchen, who was that speaking to you?"

"Herr Carmichael, the American consul."

"Carmichael!" The arm in Gretchen's stiffened.

"What is it, Leo?"