A maid comes out and opens the door. I notice that she has round, gold drops in her ears, and black stuff buttons on her grey bodice. She looks at me with a frightened air. I inquire for Kierulf--Joachim Kierulf, if I might add further--a wool-dealer; in short, not a man one could make a mistake about.... The girl shook her head. "No Kierulf lives here," said she. She stared at me, and held the door ready to close it. She made no effort to find the man for me. She really looked as if she knew the person I inquired for, if she would only take the trouble to reflect a bit. The lazy jade! I got vexed, turned my back on her, and ran downstairs again. "He wasn't there," I called to the driver. "Wasn't he there?" "No. Drive to Tomtegaden, No. 11." I was in a state of the most violent excitement, and imparted something of the same feeling to the driver. He evidently thought it was a matter of life and death, and he drove on, without further ado. He whipped up the horse sharply. "What's the man's name?" he inquired, turning round on the box. "Kierulf, a dealer in wool--Kierulf." And the driver, too, thought this was a man one would not be likely to make any mistake about. "Didn't he generally wear a light morning, coat?" "What!" I cried; "a light morning-coat? Are you mad? Do you think it is a tea-cup I am inquiring about?" This light morning-coat came most inopportunely; it spoilt the whole man for me such as I had fancied him. "What was it you said he was called?--Kierulf?" "Of course," I replied. "Is there anything wonderful in that? The name doesn't disgrace any one." "Hasn't he red hair?" Well, it was quite possible that he had red hair, and now that the driver mentioned the matter, I was suddenly convinced that he was right. I felt grateful to the poor driver, and hastened to inform him that he had hit the man off to a T--he really was just as he described him,--and I remarked, in addition, that it would be a phenomenon to see such a man without red hair. "It must be him I drove a couple of times," said the driver; "he had a knobbed stick." This brought the man vividly before me, and I said, "Ha, ha! I suppose no one has ever yet seen the man without a knobbed stick in his hand, of that you can be certain, quite certain." Yes, it was clear that it was the same man he had driven. He recognized him--and he drove so that the horse's shoes struck sparks as they touched the stones. All through this phase of excitement I had not for one second lost my presence of mind. We pass a policeman, and I notice his number is 69. This number struck me with such vivid clearness that it penetrated like a splint into my brain--69--accurately 69. I wouldn't forget it.