“Oh, yes,” replied the old man, “it would doubtless have been so regarded by any other debtor.  But I rowed across to Doveness one day and took the note to the new ironmaster, who admitted at once that it was good.  ’It’s as clear as day that I must pay my father’s debt, Ol’ Bengtsa,’ he said.  ’But you’ll have to give me a few weeks’ grace.  It is a large sum to pay out all at once.’”

“That was spoken like a man of honour!” said the son, bringing his hand down heavily on the table.  A sense of gladness stole in upon him in spite of his suspicions.  To think that it was something so splendid the old man had been holding back from him the whole day!

“I told the ironmaster that he needn’t pay me just then; that if he would only give me a new note the money could remain in his safekeeping.”

“That was well,” said the son approvingly.  There was a strong, glad ring in his voice, that betrayed an eagerness he would rather not have shown, for he knew of old that one could never be quite sure of Ol’ Bengtsa—­in the very next breath he might say it was just a yarn.

“You don’t believe me,” observed the old man.  “Would you like to see the note?  Run in and get it, Lisa!”

Almost immediately the son had the note before his eyes.  First he glanced at the signature, and recognized the firm, legible hand of the ironmaster.  Then he looked at the figures, and found them correct.  He nodded to his wife, who sat opposite him, that it was all right, at the same time passing the note to her, knowing how interested she would be to see it.

The wife examined the note carefully.  “What does this mean?” she asked—­“’Payable to Lisa Persdotter of Lusterby’—­is Lisa to have the money?”

“Yes,” the old man answered.  “She gets this money because she has been a good daughter to me.”

“But this is unfair—­”

“No, it is not unfair,” drawled the old man in a tired voice.  “I have squared myself and owe nobody anything.  I might have had one other creditor,” he added turning to this son, “but after looking into matters, I find that I haven’t.”

“You mean me, I suppose,” said the son.  “But you don’t seem to think I—­” All that the son had wanted to say to the father was left unsaid, as he was interrupted by a piercing shriek from the opposite side of the table.

Lars Gunnarson had just seized a bottle of brandy and put it to his mouth.  His wife, screaming from terror, was trying to take it from him.  He held her back until he had emptied half the contents, whereupon he set the bottle down and turned to his wife, his face flushed, his eyes staring wildly, his hands clenched.

“Didn’t you hear it was Jan who found the note?” he said in a hoarse voice.  “All his dreams come true!  Can’t you comprehend that the man has the gift of second sight?  You’ll see that something dreadful will happen to me this day, as he has predicted.”

“Why he has only cautioned you to be on your guard,” said the wife.