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, Tamás 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 head. 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.