“As long as it’s kroner, of course, I understand. But when it’s kroner and øre?”
She gave it up as hopeless, and drew out a crumpled book from the little bag she carried.
“Here you are; you can see. I get my money from the bank, you know; it’s in a book like this.”
Egholm craned up on tiptoe. The Evangelist wormed up closer, his face a curious mingling of venom and sweetness; even old Karlsen thrust the box under his arm and rose to his feet.
“My spectacles!” And he slapped his pockets so that the money rattled in the box.
Two hundred and sixty-six kroner thirty øre.
That was the figure that showed again and again down the page in the cross-shaded columns, with Fru Westergaard’s signature after. There was a murmur from the waiting crowd.
“How much was it?”
“Eh, to think now! And every month!”