[Ulfheim enters from the left followed by a servant with a couple of sporting dogs in leash. Ulfheim is in shooting costume, with high boots and a felt hat with a feather in it. He is a long, lank, sinewy personage, with matted hair and beard, and a loud voice. His appearance gives no precise clue to his age, but he is no longer young.]
Ulfheim.
[Pounces upon the Inspector.] Is this a way to receive strangers, hey? You scamper away with your tail between your legs—as if you had the devil at your heels.
The Inspector.
[Calmly, without answering him.] Has Mr. Ulfheim arrived by the steamer?
Ulfheim.
[Growls.] Haven’t had the honour of seeing any steamer. [With his arms akimbo.] Don’t you know that I sail my own cutter? [To the Servant.] Look well after your fellow-creatures, Lars. But take care you keep them ravenous, all the same. Fresh meat-bones—but not too much meat on them, do you hear? And be sure it’s reeking raw, and bloody. And get something in your own belly while you’re about it. [Aiming a kick at him.] Now then, go to hell with you!
[The Servant goes out with the dogs, behind the corner of the hotel.]
The Inspector.
Would not Mr. Ulfheim like to go into the dining-room in the meantime?