"We Christians have a legend about the Jews which says, that on the Long Day every year a Jew disappears from the earth and is never seen again. Old Jónás disappeared thus fourteen years ago (you may be sure none of the Rothschilds will disappear in that way). His wife and children waited for him in vain, Jónás never returned. So his sons set out to look for him, and it turned out the old fellow had got soft-headed, and had taken to wandering about in the Slovak villages, where the sons now and then heard of him from people who had seen him; and then one day, they found his dead body in the Garam."
The young lawyer's face was clouded again.
"Why, in that case the umbrella will be in the Garam too, probably."
"Perhaps not," was the answer. "He may have left it at home, and if so, it will still be among the old rags and bones of the Müncz's, for I am sure no one would ever buy it. Try your luck, my boy! If I were you I would get into a carriage, and drive and drive until ..."
"But where am I to drive to?"
"Yes, of course, of course."
Then, after a minute's thought:
"Müncz's sons have gone out into the world, and the boxes of matches with which they started have probably become houses since then. But I'll tell you what; go to Bábaszék, their mother lives there."
"Whereabouts is Bábaszék?"
"Quite near to Zólyom, among the mountains. There is a saying that all the sheep there were frozen to death once, in the dog-days."