A clerk, native to Ehrenstein, was writing at a table. At a desk by the window sat Carmichael, deep in a volume of Dumas. No one ever hurried here; no one ever had palpitation of the heart over business. The clerk lifted his head.
"Mr. Carmichael?" said Grumbach in English.
The clerk indicated with his pen toward the individual by the window. Carmichael read on. Grumbach had assimilated some Americanisms. He went boldly over and seated himself in the chair at the side of the desk. With a sigh Carmichael left Porthos in the grotto of Locmaria.
"I am Mr. Grumbach. I spoke to you this morning about my passports. Will you kindly look them over?"
Carmichael took the papers, frowning slightly. Grumbach laid his derby on his knees. The consul went over the papers, viséed them, and handed them to their owner.
"You will have no trouble going about with those," Carmichael said listlessly. "How long will you be in Dreiberg?"
"I do not know," said Grumbach truthfully.
"Is there anything I can do for you?"
"There is only one thing," answered Grumbach, "but you may object, and I shall not blame you if you do. It will be a great favor."
"What do you wish?" more listlessly.