ad. The receipt
was in that umbrella! His blood began to course madly in his veins, as
the certitude of the truth of his suspicion grew upon him. Yes, there it
was, he was sure of it; and all at once he remembered the incident in
Szeged, how Gregorics had let his umbrella fall in the water, his
anxiety, and offer of a large reward for its discovery. Then again, the
old gentleman's words rang in his ear:

"The umbrella will once belong to you, and you will find it useful to
protect you from the rain."

The bystanders could not imagine why Gyuri seemed so much put about at
the mayor's death; in their opinion it was quite right of the old man
to take his departure, he had dragged on with his gouty old leg quite
long enough, and should now make room for younger men; he had not lived
his life for nothing, for were they not going to have his portrait
painted and hung in the Town Hall, a grand ending to his life? If he
lived for ten years longer he could have no greater honor done him, and
his portrait would be even uglier than now.

They were even more surprised at the strange question which Gyuri, in
spite of the solemnity of the occasion, put to the dying man.

"And was the hole big, sir?"

"What hole?" asked the mayor, who had already forgotten the subject.

"The hole in the handle of the umbrella."

"I really don't know, I never asked Gregorics."

He closed his eyes, and in a weak voice added, with that phlegma which
only a Hungarian displays on his deathbed:

"But if you wait a bit, I'll ask him."

And he probably kept his promise, for half an hour later a black flag
was flying from the roof of the Town Hall, and the bell of the Roman
Catholic church was tolling.

Gyuri Wibra had hurried home, nervous and excited, and was now marching
up and down his office, his heart beating wildly with joy.

"I have the treasure at last!" he kept on repeating to himself, "at
least, I should have it if I had the umbrella. But where is it?" He
could neither eat, nor drink, nor sleep till he had settled it. He
questioned his mother on the subject, and she did her best to answer
him, but could only repeat:

"How am I to remember that, my dear boy, after so long a time? And what
do you want that ragged umbrella for?"

Gyuri sighed.

"If I have to dig it out of the ground with my ten fingers, I will do
it."

"Perhaps Matyko will remember something about it?"

Matyko was soon found; he sat smoking his pipe in the anteroo