let the
Golden Calf go on lowing in my ears forever. I will not take another
step in the affair, and shall imagine I dreamed it all."

But it was easier said than done. You can throw ashes on a smouldering
fire--it will put it out, but not prevent it smoking.

Sometimes one friend referred to it, sometimes another. His mother, who
now walked on crutches, often spoke of the good old times, sitting in
her arm-chair by the fire. And at length she owned that old Gregorics
had wanted to telegraph for Gyuri on his deathbed.

"He seemed as though he could not die till he had seen you," she said.
"But it was my fault you came too late."

"And why did he so much want to see me?"

"He said he wanted to give you something."

A light broke in upon Gyuri's brain. The Vienna carriage-builder had
given him to understand that his father's fortune was represented by a
receipt for money placed in a bank, and from the information his mother
now gave him, he concluded that the old gentleman had intended giving
him the receipt before his death. So he must always have kept it by him.
But what had become of it? In which bank was the money deposited? Could
he, knowing what he did, give up the idea of finding it?

No, no, it was impossible! It could not be lost! Why, a grain of wheat,
if dropped in a ditch, would reappear in time, however unexpectedly. And
in a case of this kind, a chance word, a sign, could clear up every
doubt.

He had not long to wait. One day, the dying mayor of the town, Tamas
Krikovszky, sent for him to make his will. Several people, holding high
positions in the town, were assembled in the room. There lay the mayor,
pale and weak, but he still seemed to retain some of the majesty of his
office, in the manner in which he took leave of his inferiors in office,
recommending the welfare of the town to them, and then taking from
under his pillow the official seal, he put it into their hands, saying:

"For twenty years I have sealed the truth with it!"

Then he dictated his will to Gyuri, and while doing so, referred now and
then to various incidents in his life.

"Dear me, what times those were," he said once, addressing himself to
Gyuri. "Your father had a red umbrella, with a hollow handle, in which
he used to carry valuable papers from one camp to another, in the days
when he was a spy."

"What!" stammered Gyuri. "The red umbrella?" and his eyes shone.

Like a flash of lightning a thought had entered his he