The last of the fishing-boats are ready to sail; the season is over. But the sea was still rich; herring were sighted along the coast, and prices fell. Trader Mack had bought up what fish he could get, and none had heard of any stoppage in his payments; only the last boat he had asked to wait while he telegraphed south for money. But at that folk had begun whispering at once. Mack was in difficulties.... Aha!

But Trader Mack was as all-powerful as ever. In the thick of all his other business he had promised the Vicarage people a bakery. Good! The bakery was getting on, the workmen had arrived, and the foundation was already laid. Fruen found it a real pleasure to go and watch her bakery growing up. But now the building-work was to commence, and this was a matter for other workmen; they had been telegraphed for too, said Mack.

Meantime, however, the baker at the Lensmandsgaard had pulled himself together. What a letter from the priest had failed to accomplish, was effected by Mack with his foundation. “If it’s bread they want, why, they shall have it,” said the baker. But everyone understood that the poor man was only writhing helplessly; he would be crushed now, crushed by Mack.

Rolandsen sits in his room drawing up a curious announcement, with his signature. He reads it over again and again, and approves it. Then he puts it in his pocket, takes his hat, and goes out. He took the road down to Mack’s office at the factory.

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.”

“Did you? Then you ought not to have done so. It’s cost me a lot of trouble to get another.”

Said Rolandsen, “I was all in a flurry, and didn’t think. I beg you to forgive me.”

“There was another chest with several thousand Daler in it; why didn’t you take that?”

“I didn’t find that one.”

Mack had finished his calculations. Whether Rolandsen had committed the burglary or not, he would in any case make the finest culprit Mack could have wished. He would certainly make no secret of the affair, but rather declare it to every soul he met; the last boat’s crew would carry the news with them home, and so it would come to the ears of the traders along the coast. Mack felt he was saved.

“I have never heard of your going about and ... your having this weakness before,” he said.

Whereto Rolandsen answered, No, not among the fishermen, no. When he wanted to steal, he didn’t go bird-nesting in that petty fashion; he went to the bank itself.

That was one for Mack! He only answered now with a reproachful air, “But that you could steal from me....”

Rolandsen said, “I worked myself up to it, to be bold enough. I was drunk at the time, I am sorry to say.”

After this it seemed no longer impossible that the confession was true. Rolandsen was known to be a wild fellow who led an extravagant life and had no great income to draw upon. That keg of brandy from Rosengaard must have cost him something.

“And I’ve more to confess, I’m sorry to say,” went on Rolandsen. “I haven’t the money now, to pay it back.”

Mack looked highly indifferent. “That doesn’t matter in the least,” he said. “The thing that troubles me is all the stupid gossip it’s led to. All those unpleasant insinuations against me and my family.”

“I’ve thought of that. And I was going to do something....”

“What do you mean?”

“Take down your placard from the Vicarage gate and put up one of my own in its place.”

This was Rolandsen all over. “No,” said Mack. “I won’t ask you to do that. It will be hard enough for you as it is, my good man. But you might write a declaration here.” And Mack nodded towards Frederik’s seat.

Rolandsen set to work. Mack was thinking deeply the while. Here was all this serious business turning out for the best. It would cost him something, but the money would be well spent; his renown would now be spread far and wide.

Mack read over the declaration, and said, “Yes, that’s good enough. I don’t intend to make use of it, of course....”

“That’s as you please,” said Rolandsen.

“And I do not propose to say anything about our interview to-day. It can remain between ourselves.”

“Then I shall have to tell people myself,” said Rolandsen. “The priest’s letter said particularly that we should confess.”

Mack opened his fire-proof safe and took out a bundle of notes. Here was his chance to show what sort of man he was. And who could know that a master seiner from a stranger boat was down in the bay waiting for those very notes before he could sail?

Mack counted out four hundred Daler, and said, “I don’t mean to insult you, but it’s my way to keep to my word. I have promised a reward of four hundred Daler, which is now due to you.”

Rolandsen walked towards the door. “I deserve your contempt,” said he.

“Contempt!” said Mack. “Let me tell you....”

“Your generosity cuts me to the heart. Instead of putting me in prison, you reward me....”

But it was a mere trifle for Mack to lose a couple of hundred Daler over a burglary. It was only when he rewarded the thief himself with twice that amount that the thing became really magnificent. He said, “Look here, Rolandsen, you will find yourself in difficulties now; you will lose your place to begin with. The money will be no inconvenience to me, but it may be of real importance to you just now. I beg you to think over what I say.”

“I couldn’t do it,” said Rolandsen.

Mack took the notes and thrust them into Rolandsen’s pocket.

“Let it be a loan, then,” said Rolandsen humbly.

And this chivalrous merchant-prince agreed, and answered, “Very well, then, as a loan.” But he knew in his heart that he would never see the money again.

Rolandsen stood there looking as if weighed down by the heaviest burden in life. It was a pitiful sight.

“And now make haste and right yourself again,” said Mack encouragingly. “You’ve made a bad slip, but it’s never too late, you know.”

Rolandsen thanked him with the greatest humility, and went out.

“I am a thief,” he said to the factory girls as he went out, making a beginning with them without delay. And he gave them his full confession.

Then he went up to the Vicarage gate, and tore down Mack’s notice, setting up his own instead. There it was in black and white, setting forth that he, Rolandsen, and no other, was the culprit. And to-morrow would be Sunday; many church-goers would pass by the spot.