“Do I want the brickfields? Bless me, no! But why should Norby have them?”
At last a thought struck him. One of his farm labourers, Sören Kvikne, had once been in the employment of the deceased witness, Jörgen Haarstad. Wangen had no witnesses now that Haarstad was dead. Suppose Sören Kvikne could be utilised!
He remembered what an honest man Sören Kvikne had always been, so he took out a bottle of brandy, and sent over to the men’s quarters for him, for the men were in at dinner.
It was not a customary thing for the men to be called into the sitting-room of the farm; and when Sören Kvikne went in, he looked about cautiously to see where he should spit, and scarcely dared to seat himself upon the beautiful chair.
But Herlufsen gave him a long pipe to smoke, and placed him on the sofa opposite himself, and after filling his glass two or three times, said to him:
“Weren’t you once in the employment of Haarstad, Sören?”
Sören Kvikne fingered his thin beard, and gazed in front of him with a melancholy stare. Oh yes! He was, he answered.
“You can’t remember, I suppose, whether Haarstad ever mentioned anything about having signed his name as a witness for Wangen and Norby?”
Sören Kvikne shook his head. He could not remember it at all.
“Well, well,” said Herlufsen, “you must think a little, Sören.”