Ráby had to admit that he had no such recollection.
"Ah, that's because I was—well, differently dressed, perhaps, yet it is so, I can assure you, and what's more, I spoke four words to you, although you have so short a memory for them."
And the speaker sat down and began filling his pipe and lighting up for a smoke.
Ráby in vain sought for a solution to the mystery. After the smoker had taken a couple of pulls at the pipe, he went back to where our hero sat, and planted himself on the window-ledge letting his legs dangle, while his spurs rattled.
"Is it possible they didn't tell you who the prisoner was that was to share your cell?" he asked.
"I did not even ask," admitted Ráby, "who it might be."
"Then I will tell you—his name is Karcsatáji Miska."
"Gyöngyöm Miska?"
"Don't make a mistake!" pursued the highwayman, "and think I let myself be taken: I am here solely through my own fault. It's a strange story, I'll tell you more about it later, I can't talk on an empty stomach!"
And thereupon, he took out a big flask of brandy from a case, and produced some glasses and white bread, and called upon his companion to join him.