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The only thing I had to divert myself with was a little red rocking-chair, in which I used to sit in the evenings and doze and muse on all manner of things. When it blew hard, and the door below stood open, all kinds of eerie sounds moaned up through the floor and from out the walls, and the Morgenbladet near the door was rent in strips a span long.
I felt ice run down my back at my own boldness, and I clenched my hands to steady myself a bit. If I only hadn't dragged in the Morgenbladet. I knew Friele could show his teeth when he liked, and I was reminded of that by the grinding of the key turning in the lock. "The gas will burn for ten minutes," remarked the policeman at the door. "And then does it go out?" "Then it goes out!"
By the door where the wall of the room was papered with old numbers of the Morgenbladet, I could distinguish clearly a notice from the Director of Lighthouses, and a little to the left of that an inflated advertisement of Fabian Olsens' new-baked bread. The instant I opened my eyes I began, from sheer force of habit, to think if I had anything to rejoice over that day.
Sitting on the bed, hat in hand, and with eyes fastened on the gas jet over in the wall, I gave myself up to thinking over the minutes of my first interview with the police. This was the first time, and how hadn't I fooled them? "Journalist! Tangen! if you please! and then Morgenbladet!" Didn't I appeal straight to his heart with Morgenbladet? "We won't mention that! Eh?
"Morgenbladet!" said I. "I have been out a little too late this evening, more's the shame!" "Oh, we won't mention that," he interrupted, with a smile; "when young people are out ... we understand!" Turning to a policeman, he said, as he rose and bowed politely to me, "Show this gentleman up to the reserved section. Good-night!"
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