“I hope, sir, I take you for what you are, that is to say, for the honourable Mynheer Van Herysen, burgomaster of Haarlem, and President of the Horticultural Society.”
“And what is it you told me just now?”
“I told you, sir, that my tulip has been stolen.”
“Then your tulip is that of Mynheer Boxtel. Well, my child, you express yourself very badly. The tulip has been stolen, not from you, but from Mynheer Boxtel.”
“I repeat to you, sir, that I do not know who this Mynheer Boxtel is, and that I have now heard his name pronounced for the first time.”
“You do not know who Mynheer Boxtel is; and you also had a black tulip?”
“But is there any other besides mine?” asked Rosa, trembling.
“Yes—that of Mynheer Boxtel.”
“How is it?”
“Black, of course.”
“Without speck?”
“Without a single speck, or even point.”
“And you have this tulip, you have it deposited here?”
“No, but it will be, as it has to be exhibited before the Committee, previous to the prize being awarded.”
“Oh, sir!” cried Rosa, this Boxtel, this Isaac Boxtel, who calls himself the owner of the black tulip,”—
“And who is its owner?”—
“Is he not a very thin man?”
“Yes.”
“Bald?”
“Yes.”
“With sunken eyes?”
“I think he has.”
“Restless, stooping, and bow-legged.”
