“As far as I know, it would,” said Frithiof; “but if you will just come into the hotel with me we will find out if there is any message from my father. If there is nothing, why, I am perfectly free. It is possible, though, that he will have business for me to see to.”
Accordingly they went into the hotel together, and Frithiof accosted a waiter in the entrance hall.
“Anything come for me since I went out?” he asked.
“Yes, sir, I believe there is, sir. Herr Falck, is it not?”
He brought forward a telegram and handed it to Frithiof, who hurriedly tore open the orange envelope and began eagerly to read. As he read, every shade of color left his face; the telegram was in Norwegian, and its terse, matter of-fact statement overwhelmed him. Like one in some dreadful dream he read the words:
“Father bankrupt, owing to failure Iceland expedition, also loss Morgan’s agency.”
There was more beyond, but this so staggered him that he looked up from the fatal pink paper with a sort of wild hope that his surroundings would reassure him, that he should find it all a mistake. He met the curious eyes of the waiter, he saw two girls in evening-dress crossing the vestibule.
“We ought to be at the Lyceum by this time!” he heard one of them say to the other. “How annoying of father to be so late!”
The girl addressed had a sweet sunshiny face.
“Oh, he will soon be here,” she said, smiling, but as her eyes happened to fall on Frithiof she grew suddenly grave and compassionate; she seemed to glance from his face to the telegram in his hand, and her look brought him a horrible perception that after all this was real waking existence. It was a real telegram he held, it was all true, hideously true. His father was bankrupt.