Rolandsen had been expecting Jomfru van Loos to go away, but she had not gone; her mistress had not dismissed her at all. Rolandsen had been out in his reckoning when he hoped that Fruen would do him favours. He came to his reasonable senses again, and thought to himself, Let’s keep to earth now; we haven’t made such an impression after all, it seems. On the other hand, he had received a letter of serious and chastening content from the priest himself. Rolandsen did not attempt to hide the fact that this thing had happened to him; he told the matter to all, to high and low. It was no more than he deserved, he said, and it had done him good; no priest had ever troubled about him before since his confirmation. Rolandsen would even venture to say that the priest ought to send many such letters out among his flock, to the better comfort and guidance of all. But no one could see from Rolandsen’s manner that he had been any way rejoiced or comforted of late; on the contrary, he appeared more thoughtful than ever, and seemed to be occupied with some particular thought. Shall I, or shall I not? he might be heard to murmur. And now, this morning, when his former betrothed, Jomfru van Loos, had lain in wait for him and plagued the life out of him again with that ridiculous business of the serenade, he had left her with the significant words, “I’ll do it!” Rolandsen walks into Mack’s office and gives greeting. He is perfectly sober. The Macks, father and son, are standing, each at one side of the desk, writing. Old Mack offers him a chair, but Rolandsen does not sit. He says: “I only came in to say it was me that broke in and took the money.” Father and son stare at him. “I’ve come to give myself up,” says Rolandsen. “It would not be right to hide it any longer; ’tis bad enough as it is.” “Leave us alone a minute,” says Old Mack. Frederik walks out. Says Mack, “Are you in your right senses to-day?” “I did it, I tell you,” shouts Rolandsen. And Rolandsen’s voice was a voice for song and strong words. Then there was a pause. Mack blinked his eyes, and looked thoughtful. “You did it, you say?” “Yes.” Mack thought again. That good brain of his had solved many a problem in its day; he was well used to settling a matter quickly. “And will you hold by your words to-morrow as well?” “Yes. From henceforth I will not conceal it. I have had a letter from the priest, and it’s that has changed me.” Was Mack beginning to believe him? Or was it merely as a matter of form that he went on? “When did you do it?” he asked. Rolandsen mentioned the night. “And how did you go about it?” Rolandsen described it all in detail. “There were some papers in the chest with the money--did you notice them?” “Yes. There were some papers.” “One of them is missing; what have you done with it?” “I haven’t got it. A paper? No.” “My life insurance policy, it was.” “An insurance policy! Yes, now I remember. I must confess I burnt it.”