He conjured up this scene more and more vividly, as if it had some hidden power that might suddenly make its appearance and be his salvation. He seemed to sit there, and even to feel the taste of the strong coffee. He saw people at the neighbouring tables, while Norby signed. The cigar-smoke lay in layers in the air, the waiters ran about with napkins under their arms, counted money, and drew corks. Glasses jingled, people laughed and made a noise, and conversation filled the café. And here sat the three, and signed their names. But was there actually no fourth man?
He began to have a suspicion that there had been one more, just because he so earnestly wished it. But perhaps they had bought him too. This thought angered him. It should be brought to light. He went on seeing the hands writing, and the people round looking on. He even saw it when he slept; he saw it when he fixed his eyes upon any one he was speaking to. This was the scene that had to be proved and it therefore appeared in a feverish light, the more helpless he felt himself. At last he really began to have a consciousness that there had actually been a fourth man close by. At first it was only like a shadow on the wall; but the shadow acquired eyes that looked on while Norby signed. It acquired a voice that said: “Yes, I saw it; but I will not interfere in the matter now.” Indeed? But he would have to. He should be brought to light, no matter how well he had been paid for not interfering. Wangen became more and more eager to produce him, as the trial pressed closer upon him.
One day he had again met the tailor with the mad eyes, and lay awake at night. He then saw this unknown form more vividly than ever; it resisted and would not advance, but it would have to, by Jove it would! And although Wangen again and again felt impelled to cuff himself and say that he was mad, he could not but wish, hope and cling to this new possibility, which would perhaps save him at the last moment.
One day he told his wife about it, and she became excited and encouraged him almost fiercely. As she questioned him more closely, and he had to answer with probable reasons, it came to be some one whom he did not yet quite recollect: it was several years ago. But to sit and talk about this person became a strengthening draught to them both. At last one evening, when they had once more been sitting and talking about it, and Wangen had been burrowing for some time in his memory, he suddenly sprang up, crying: “I have him!”
“Henry!” exclaimed his wife with a little cry, also rising.
“It was Rasmus Brodersen.”
“Oh, thank God!” she panted, with her hands upon her breast. But Rasmus Brodersen was in America. Wangen believed, however, that one of the letters from him was on this subject.
He got out his packets of letters, and began to read through all letters from this old school-friend of his. He did not find it that evening. It was possible it might have been lost.
The excitement and tension of these hours made Fru Wangen quite ill. She wanted to sit up at night, but he wanted to wait until the following day; and as he seated himself with fresh packets of letters the next morning, he thought: “She’ll be beside herself if I don’t find anything to-day.”
At about dinner-time she came in to him in the bedroom where he was sitting, and asked for the twentieth time! “Well?”