Good-bye—till to-morrow! [RAGNA _and_ HELLE _go out by the back._ DANIEL HEIRE _enters from the right._ HEIRE. Ha-ha! It’s going like a house on fire! They’re all cackling Stensgård, Stensgård, Stensgård! They’re all plumping for you. Now you should plump for him too, Madam Rundholmen! MADAM RUNDHOLMEN. Hey, that’s an idea! Are they all voting for him? HEIRE. Unanimously—Mr. Stensgård enjoys the confidence of the constituency, as the saying is. Old Lundestad is going about with a face like a pickled cucumber. Oh, it’s a pleasure to see it all. MADAM RUNDHOLMEN. They shan’t regret having voted for him. If I can’t vote, I can stand treat. [_Goes out to the left._ HEIRE. Ah, you are the man for the widows, Mr. Stensgård! I’ll tell you what—if you can only get hold of her, you’re a made man, sir! STENSGÅRD. Get hold of Madam Rundholmen? HEIRE. Yes, why not? She’s a substantial woman in every sense of the word. She’ll be mistress of the situation as soon as the Stonelee card-castle has come to grief. STENSGÅRD. There’s nothing wrong at Stonelee, is there? HEIRE. Isn’t there? You have a short memory, my dear sir. Didn’t I tell you there were rumours of failure, and bankruptcy, and——? STENSGÅRD. Well, what then? HEIRE. What then? That’s just what we want to know. There’s a hue and cry after Monsen; two men have come to Stonelee—— STENSGÅRD. Yes, I know—a couple of visitors—— HEIRE. Uninvited visitors, my dear young friend; there are whispers of the police and infuriated creditors—there’s something queer about the accounts, you must know! Talking of that—what paper was that Monsen gave you yesterday? STENSGÅRD. Oh, just a paper——Something queer about the accounts, you say? Look here! you know Chamberlain Bratsberg’s signature? HEIRE. Hee-hee! I should rather think I did. STENSGÅRD. [_Produces the bill._] Well, look at this. 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.