butcher approached the same table and seated himself after the manner of
the carter. It was only when the dusty baker came along and repeated
this procedure, preserving the same silence, that Carmichael's curiosity
was enlivened. This curiosity, however, was only of the evanescent
order. Undoubtedly they were socialists and this was a little conclave,
and the peculiar manner of their meeting, the silence and mystery, were
purely fictional. Socialism at that time revolved round the blowing up
of kings, of demolishing established order. Neither kings were blown up
nor order demolished, but it was a congenial topic over which to while
away an evening. This was in the German states; in Russia it was a
different matter.

Had Carmichael not fallen a-dreaming over his pipe he would have seen
the old man pass three slips of paper across the table; he would have
seen the carter, the butcher, and the baker pocket these slips
stolidly; he would have seen the mountaineer wave his hand sharply and
the trio rise and disperse. And perhaps it would have been well for him
to have noted these singular manifestations of conspiracy, since shortly
he was to become somewhat involved. It was growing late; so Carmichael
left the Black Eagle, nursing the sunken ember in his pipe and
surrendering no part of his dream.

Intermediately the mountaineer paid his score and started for the stairs
which led to the bedrooms above. But he stopped at the bar. A very old
man was having a pail filled with hot cabbage soup. It was the ancient
clock-mender across the way. The mountaineer was startled out of his
habitual reserve, but he recovered his composure almost instantly. The
clock-mender, his heavy glasses hanging crookedly on his nose, his whole
aspect that of a weary, broken man, took down his pail and shuffled
noiselessly out. The mountaineer followed him cautiously. Once in his