As Consul With was going home, loaded down with bundles—he always had the costliest presents for his wife—he met three policemen who were carrying something long and dark between them.
“What is it, Hansen?” asked the consul.
“Oh, it’s Loppen, consul.”
“Hem! is—is she dead?”
“Only dead-drunk, I think. Merry Christmas, consul!”
“Thanks; the same to you!” answered Consul With and walked on.
As it grew quiet upon the streets, it grew livelier in the houses and the children’s laughter and shouts stretched out into the cold winter night where Miss Falbe still wandered about, each moment fancying that she saw Loppen’s shawl swing around the corner.
At last she met a policeman who also seemed to be looking for some one; he told her that “the gang” had been at burglary and Loppen had been with them.
Weary and worn out Miss Falbe walked homeward. It was in fact not so seldom that she had undergone disappointments of this kind; but this was the most painful of all; she thought so much of Elsie.
When his sister did not come according to appointment at six o’clock, Christian had gone out; but he found no one to drink with that evening, cold and forsaken as it was everywhere; so he had gone home again, cross and crusty.