Heire.
Give it here—I'm rather short-sighted, you know. [After examining it.] That, my dear sir? That's not the Chamberlain's hand.
Stensgård.
Not? Then it is?
Heire.
And it's drawn by Monsen?
Stensgård.
No, by young Mr. Bratsberg.
Heire.
Nonsense! Let me see. [Looks at the paper and hands it back again.] You can light your cigar with this.
Stensgård.
What! The drawer's name too?
Heire.
A forgery, young man; a forgery, as sure as my name's Daniel. You have only to look at it with the keen eye of suspicion
Stensgård.
But how can that be? Monsen can't have known
Heire.
Monsen? No, he knows nothing about either his own paper or other people's. But I'm glad it has come to an end, Mr. Stensgård!—It's a satisfaction to one's moral sense. Ah, I have often glowed with a noble indignation, if I may say so, at
