By the way, perhaps I haven’t told you: I’m an agronomist, a farmer. I’ve just returned from a trip, and I may settle down here for a while. But perhaps I even forgot to ... My name is Nagel, Johan Nilsen Nagel.”

With that he shook the hotel keeper’s hand very heartily, apologizing for not having introduced himself sooner. His face didn’t betray the least trace of irony.

“It just occurred to me that we might be able to offer you a better, quieter room,” the hotel keeper said. “You’re next to the stairs now, and that’s not always pleasant.”

“Thank you, but that’s not necessary, the room is excellent, I’m quite satisfied with it. Besides, I can see all of Market Square from my windows, and that’s very interesting, of course.”2

After a moment the hotel keeper went on, “So you’re taking a holiday now for a while? Then you’ll be around until well into the summer, at any rate?”

“Two or three months, perhaps even longer, I can’t say exactly,” Nagel answered. “It all depends. I’ll have to wait and see.”

At that moment a man walked by, bowing to the hotel keeper in passing. He was an insignificant-looking man, small of stature and very poorly dressed; he had such difficulty walking that you couldn’t help noticing, and yet he managed to move along pretty fast. Though he made a very deep bow, the hotel keeper didn’t tip his hat. Nagel, on the other hand, doffed his velvet cap.

The hotel keeper turned to him and said, “That’s someone we call Miniman. He’s a bit daft, but I feel sorry for him; he’s a very kindhearted fellow.”

Nothing further was said about Miniman.

“I read something,” Nagel suddenly says, “I read something in the papers a few days ago about a man who was found dead in the woods someplace around here. What sort of a man was he? A certain Karlsen, I believe. Was he someone from this town?”

“Yes,” the hotel keeper replies, “he was the son of a local bloodletter; you can see her house from here, that red roof out there. He was only home for the holidays, and then he quit this life while he was at it. But it’s a great pity, he was a gifted boy and soon to be ordained. Hm, it’s hard to know what to say about it, but it’s certainly a bit suspicious; for since both arteries were severed, it could hardly have been an accident, could it? And now they have found the knife too, a small penknife with a white handle; the police found it late last night. Apparently there was a love affair behind it.”

“Oh, indeed! But can there really be any doubt that he took his own life?”

“One hopes for the best—well, you know, there are those who believe he may have carried the knife in his hand and stumbled so awkwardly that he hurt himself in two places at once. Ha-ha, that seems very unlikely to me, very unlikely indeed. But he will definitely be buried in consecrated ground. No, he probably didn’t stumble, I’m afraid!”

“You say they found the knife only last night. But wasn’t the knife lying next to him?”

“No, it was lying several paces off. After using it, he threw it away, into the woods; it was found quite by chance.”

“Really. But what reason could he have had for throwing the knife away, since he was lying there with open cuts? It would be clear to everyone, wouldn’t it, that he must have used a knife?”

“Ah, God knows what he may have had in mind; but, as I said, there was probably a love affair behind it all. It’s quite unheard of; the more I think about it, the worse it looks to me.”

“Why do you think a love affair was behind it?”

“For several reasons. However, it’s hard to know what to say about it.”

“But couldn’t he simply have fallen, by accident? He was lying in such an awkward position; wasn’t he lying on his stomach with his face in a puddle?”

“Yes, and he had made an awful mess of himself. But that doesn’t make any difference, he may have meant something by that too. He may have wanted to hide the death agony in his face that way. Who knows?”

“Did he leave a note?”

“Supposedly he was writing something on a piece of paper; anyway, he would often be seen on the road writing things.