“No, no, no,” screamed poor Petter Nord. “I did not wish to steal. I only hid the note.”
Halfvorson heard nothing. Both the women stood with their backs turned to the room, as if determined to neither hear nor see.
Petter Nord sat up in bed. He looked all of a sudden pitifully weak and small. His tears were streaming. He wailed aloud.
“Uncle,” said Edith, “he is weeping.”
“Let him weep,” said Halfvorson, “let him weep!” And he walked forward and looked at the boy. “You can weep all you like,” he said, “but that does not take me in.”
“Oh, oh,” cried Petter Nord, “I am no thief. I hid the note as a joke—to make you angry. I wanted to pay you back for the mice. I am not a thief. Will no one listen to me. I am not a thief.”
“Uncle,” said Edith, “if you have tortured him enough now, perhaps we may go back to bed?”
“I know, of course, that it sounds terrible,” said Halfvorson, “but it cannot be helped.” He was gay, in very high spirits. “I have had my eye on you for a long time,” he said to the boy. “You have always something you are tucking away when I come into the shop. But now I have caught you. Now I leave witnesses, and now I am going for the police.”
The boy gave a piercing scream. “Will no one help me, will no one help me?” he cried. Halfvorson was gone, and the old woman who managed his house came up to him.
“Get up and dress yourself, Petter Nord! Halforson has gone for the police, and while he is away you can escape. The young lady can go out into the kitchen and get you a little food. I will pack your things.”