t it," said the lawyer; "the first offer was 15,000 florins."

Boldizsar showed no surprise.

"Well, I offer 20,000."

Not till after he had said it did it occur to him that the orchard was
not worth even 15,000 florins, and he turned impatiently and asked:

"Who is the fool who offers so much?"

"Your brother Gaspar."

At this name Boldizsar turned deathly pale, and dropped gasping on to a
chair. His lips moved, but no sound came from them, and Sztolarik
thought he would have a stroke, and rushed out for some water, calling
for help as he went; but when he returned with the cook armed with a
rolling-pin and a jug of water, the old gentleman had recovered, and
began to excuse himself.

"I felt a bit giddy; I often have attacks like this. I'm getting old,
you see. And now to return to our discussion. Yes, I'll give you 20,000
florins for 'Lebanon,' and pay the money down."

The lawyer thought a minute, then said:

"We can't manage things so quickly, for we must have the consent of the
Court of Chancery. I'll see about it at once."

And he was as good as his word, for such an advantageous sale of the
orchard he had never dared to hope for. But all the time he was
wondering why the two Gregorics were so anxious to have it. There must
be some reason for it. Supposing they had struck upon some treasure
there, it was not impossible, for had not King Arpad and his successors
lived about here? He decided to send Istvan Drotler, the civil engineer,
to have a look at the place, and see if it contained gold or coal. But
before he had time to start for the engineer's, Gaspar Gregorics
appeared on the scene, to ask if there were any letter from Pest.
Sztolarik was in difficulties.

"The letter is here, yes, the letter is here; but something else has
happened. Another purchaser has turned up, and he offers 20,000 florins
for 'Lebanon.'"

This was evidently a great blow for Gaspar.

"Impossible," he stammered. "Is it Boldizsar?"

"Yes."

Gaspar was furious; he began to swear like a trooper, and waved his
stick about, thereby knocking down one of Mrs. Sztolarik's flower-pots,
in which a rare specimen of hyacinth was just blossoming.

"The wretch!" he hissed. And then he sat staring fixedly in front of him
for some time.

How did he get to know of it? was the question he was revolving in his
mind. It was very simple. That sly Prepelicza had easily found out in
Besztercebanya that Pal Gregorics had more than one bro