“You are then Mr. Ragnar Lonner?”

“I am.”

“And for such a miserable reward—­that woman—­”

“What!  Miserable reward!—­that woman!—­Well, that night lamp is not very brilliant, but I can easily perceive that I have before me an old dutch galleon, so badly rigged and managed, that I would prefer to crowd sail and make my escape rather than to take her in tow.  And you call my wife that woman!  Miserable reward!”

“I do not understand your gibberish, my good man:  but that you are unrefined and uneducated I can easily see, and I command you to quit my room immediately.”

“You would then force me to retreat, as my Magde drove back your husband.  Please try the experiment.”

“Monster!  Unfeeling wretch!” exclaimed she, “is this the manner to speak to a lady, to an injured wife who is obliged to bemoan the infidelity of her husband.  O, the villain!  I will overpower him with my wrath!”

“My turn comes first,” interrupted Ragnar.

“Ah, ha, I understand.  My cup is filled to the brim—­blood must flow—­Lonner do you wish to kill my husband, then?”

“To fight with him.  God forbid.  Such things I leave to people of rank.  I have another method of doing my business.”

“And what is that?”

“O, it is very simple.  I thought that nothing would be more unpleasant to him than to be placed in a disgraceful position before his wife, and perhaps a greater punishment for such a miserable man could not be devised than to—­but no matter, your husband knows why he leaves his house every day.”

Mrs. Ulrica clapped her hands together violently.  Now the riddle was solved.  She now knew the cause of the sudden change in her husband’s conduct.

“And, as it has been impossible to find him at home in the daytime,” continued Ragnar, “I have come this evening to settle with him in this place, and at this hour.”

Ragnar had scarcely ceased speaking, when heavy and slow footsteps were heard ascending the stairs.

Like an infuriated tigress waiting for her prey, Mrs. Ulrica, enveloped in her crimson shawl, sat up in her bed; her eyes flashing with rage, and her face flushed to a redness which outvied the crimson of her shawl.  She was awaiting the approach of her husband.

Ragnar arose, and as silent and unmoved as a statue awaited the entrance of Mr. Fabian.  Ragnar had not produced a dagger or sword; but he drew forth from under his loose jacket a cow-hide of the greatest elasticity, and the best quality.

Without dreaming of the terrible storm that had gathered, and was about to pour down upon his devoted head, Mr. Fabian entered the apartment.  But the moment his eyes fell upon the forms of his wife, the doom pronouncer, and Lonner the genius of revenge, he staggered back towards the door, and had not his legs refused their office he would have sought safety in flight; but at two stern glances, one from Lonner, the other from his wife, he sank powerless to the floor.