"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?"