Norby went slowly into his office where the declaration lay written out. But though he had now spoken about Wangen’s forgery to all sorts of people, it was quite another thing to have to put his name to it.
Marit had followed him, and she stood waiting at the door.
“Must it be done now?” said the old man, slowly raising his eyes to hers as he fumbled for his spectacle-case.
“I am going to the post-office, and I’ll take it with me.”
Marit felt herself the motive-power in this affair. She feared that behind her back he might be prevailed upon to pull down what she had built up.
He dipped his pen in the ink, but then paused and sat gazing at Johan Sverdrup’s portrait.
“It’s a bad business, this,” he said, with his eyes upon the portrait.
“Yes!” she said, shrugging her shoulders. “You must protect yourself and your belongings while there’s law and justice in the land.”
“Yes, yes,” sighed the old man. And again he saw the spectre that grew and grew, and would fall down upon him on the day he turned round; and slowly he signed his name, Knut O. Norby.