The ironmonger remembered that it was Matykó who had chosen the caldron and taken it with him; so Gáspár one day sent for the servant, gave him a good dinner with plenty of wine, and began to question him about Pál's last days, introducing the incident of the caldron, the bill for which the ironmonger had just sent him he said.
"What about it, Matykó," he asked. "Did your master really order it? I can hardly believe it, for what could he have wanted it for? I'm afraid you have been buying things for yourself, in your master's name."
That was the very way to make Matykó speak, to doubt his honor; and now he let out the whole story in order to clear himself. The day before his death, his master had told him to go and buy a caldron, and bring it him, together with two masons. He had done as he was told, and toward evening had taken the caldron into his master's bedroom; the masons had arrived at the same time, and had seen the caldron, so they could bear witness to the fact.
"Well, that's right, Matykó, you're a lucky fellow, for if you have two witnesses, your honor is as intact as ever, and you must consider my words as unspoken. Drink another glass of wine, and don't be offended at my suspicion; after all, it was only a natural conclusion; we could find no traces of the caldron, and the ironmonger wanted to be paid for it, and said you had taken it away. Where can it have got to?"
"Heaven only knows," answered Matykó.
"Never."
"And what became of the masons? What did they come for?"
"I don't know."
Gáspár smiled pleasantly at the man.