"He took us into the corridor and promised to pay if we never called on him there again."
"Indeed! He spends two hours a week there, and receives six thousand crowns, because his name is Stjernborst. Let's see! It's Saturday to-day. Be at the 'Triton' punctually at half-past twelve; if you should see me there, which I expect you will, not a flicker of an eyelid. Do you understand? Right! Any fresh business?"
"Thirty-five new requests."
"Yes, yes, it's Christmas Eve to-morrow."
Falk turned over a bundle of promissory notes; every now and then he smiled, or muttered a word.
"Good Heavens! Has he come to that? And this one—and that one—who was looked upon as such a steady fellow! Yes, yes—hard times are in store for all of us. Oh! He, too, wants money? Then I shall buy his house...."
Another knock at the door. The desk was closed, papers and catechism vanished into thin air, and Nyström disappeared through the secret door.
"At half-past twelve," whispered Falk, as he went. "One thing more! Have you finished the poem?"
"Yes," replied a muffled voice.
"Right! Keep Levin's promissory note in readiness, so that it can be submitted to his head office at any time. Some day I shall smash him. The rascal's deceitful."