“It’s coming on to blow and there’ll be a storm to-night,” said the blind man, drawing the skin coverlet over him.
“Then they’ll have to have the snow-plough out again to-morrow,” said one of the others, after a short pause. Then they yawned a little more, and silence fell upon the little house.
[CHAPTER IV]
THE day before the inquiry, Norby was in his office all day, arranging his papers, making notes, and preparing his answers to the questions he would probably be asked the next day. He no longer felt that it was he who accused Wangen, but on the contrary he thought it was he who had to make the defence.
The grey light of a snowy day fell upon the table and his papers, and upon the old man as he stood with his spectacles far down upon his nose, and passed his defences in review. He was tired of going about collecting counter-evidence and taking declarations; but now he was well armed, and was only impatient to begin.
A slight smile came over the old man’s face as he looked at a paper that he held carefully as if it were something precious. It was precious too. It was a declaration from Jörgen Haarstad’s bed-ridden widow; and it would completely confound the evidence that Sören Kvikne was going to give. This was amusing, because Herlufsen would be disappointed. The old man was looking forward with intense pleasure to the moment when he should read the declaration aloud in court, perhaps with Herlufsen sitting there and listening to it. There was no doubt that poor Sören had simply been bribed to give evidence as to his having heard this remark of Jörgen Haarstad’s. That was the kind of means these people used; it was really beyond a joke.
The old man began to pace the floor, sighing now and again. He was pale; of late he had been unable to think of anything but of how he could be even with his enemies. He had as it were passed by the actual heart of the matter in a railway train; and it now lay so far behind in mist, that there were far more important things to be thought of. It was clear, too, that it was not justice that his enemies were so anxious for. No; what they were striving to do was to injure him and knock him down.
At one time that scene at the hotel had stood very distinctly before him; but Wangen’s assertion that it took place in the Grand Café had taken the sting out of the recollection. “Oh,” thought Norby. “So it was at the Grand? Very well! Perhaps he’s right. But then it’s all the more certain that it’s a lie. I’ve never in my life signed any document at the Grand. If any paper was signed there with my name, then it’s a forgery!” Although these thoughts did not always bring satisfaction, it was nevertheless a relief to let them out. And there was so much besides to indicate that Wangen’s hands were not clean; there were thousands of other things to think about and be incensed over, and the old man had now so often expressed himself regarding the affair, that to remember his assertions was the same as remembering the reality.
He was still standing rummaging among his papers, when the door opened and Marit entered.