consul, kindly have a porter bring them over to the bureau of police. It
will be only a matter of form. I shall return them at once."

Grumbach produced a Louis Napoleon which was then as now acceptable that
side of the Rhine. It was not done with pomposity, but rather with the
exuberance of a man whose purse and letter of credit possess an assuring
circumference.

"Drink a bottle, you and your comrade," he said.

This the officer promised to do forthwith. He returned the passports,
put a hand to his cap respectfully and, followed by his assistant,
walked off briskly.

Grumbach took off his derby and wiped the perspiration from his
forehead. This moisture had not been wrung forth by any atmospheric
effect. From the top of his forehead to the cowlick on the back of his
head ran a broad white scar. At one time or another Grumbach had been on
the ragged edge of the long journey. He went out of doors. There is
nothing like sunshine to tonic the ebbing courage.

Coming up the thoroughfare, with a dash of spirit and color, was a small
troop of horses. The sunlight broke upon the steel and silver. A waiter,
cleaning off the little iron tables on the sidewalk, paused. The riders
passed, all but two in splendid uniforms. Grumbach watched them till
they disappeared into the palace courtyard. He called to the waiter.

"Who are they?"

"The grand duke and some of his staff, Herr."