“I remember it as if it had been yesterday,” said Sören. “We were painting a cariole, what’s more, when he told me.”
The clerk now recollected that Norby wished to give evidence after this man, and as he scented something interesting, he determined to confront the two witnesses.
Norby had freshened up since Marit had told him of Einar’s departure; and now his great moment had come at last.
When he stood in the witness-box with Sören Kvikne, he first looked round. Yes, Herlufsen was in court. He then took out his document, and asked the clerk if he might read it aloud.
“Certainly,” said the clerk, a little uncertainly, involuntarily extending his hand for the paper.
Norby read: “I, Jörgen Haarstad’s widow, hereby declare upon my honour that Sören Kvikne left our service six months before the date of the signature of Wangen’s document. As he then went into service for some time in another parish, it is impossible that my husband can have spoken to him about this matter before he died.”
The clerk now took the document and ran his eye over it. The audience had risen in their excitement, and the accused had also risen and had to lean against the wall for support.
“What have you to say to that?” asked the clerk, fixing his eyes upon Sören Kvikne. Norby had turned to look at Mads Herlufsen. “That’s one for you!” he thought, thinking too that Herlufsen looked as if he had got the toothache.
“What have you to say to that?” repeated the clerk, as Sören Kvikne stood staring at his boots. “You said you were painting a cariole when he told you about it; but it appears that your memory is at fault. How do you explain this?”