Part 22 (2/2)

”I don't deny it,” said Kalman; ”but time works wonders, let me tell you. At present the old people have indeed a cordial, ay, a _fraternal_ hate against each other. Only think; when the Jew told Tengelyi that his papers were gone, the notary was at once struck with the curious coincidence (for _curious_ it was) of his n.o.ble descent being put in question at the very moment of the theft. He spoke of a deep laid plan, of a plot, the prime mover of which was----”

”Not my Father!” cried Akosh, anxiously.

”No, not exactly; besides, he is aware of my position in your family.

But he talked of our friend Mr. Catspaw, whom, as I take it, he thinks but a tool in the hands of a third person.”

”My father is incapable of such a thing!”

”Perhaps the notary does not suspect him so much as he does your step-mother. He had much to say about the other robbery which they attempted at the curate's, when the thieves, it appears, were likewise after papers, for they touched none of the things in the room, but opened the drawer in which Vandory kept his papers. Those papers have since been removed to Tengelyi's house; and the notary told me over and over again he was sure the two robberies were done by one and the same hand, and planned by the same head. By the bye,” said Kalman after a pause, ”do you happen to know any thing of Vandory's papers?”

”Who, I? Of course not. I've often wondered what important papers Vandory must have, since it seems there _are_ people who wish to steal them.”

”I understand,” whispered young Kishlaki, ”that his papers have something to do with your family.”

”With _my_ family?”

”Ay, you know your father had an elder brother by your grandfather's first wife. His second wife, your own grandmother, made the poor boy's life miserable.”

”Yes, and he ran away!” said Akosh. ”They told me all about it. It strikes me second wives don't do in the Rety family. But what connection is there between all this and Vandory's papers?”

”I understand that that poor fellow, your uncle, went to Germany, probably to some university; for he was seventeen when he ran away, and a good scholar, they say. Now I am told that Vandory knew your uncle, and that he still knows of his whereabouts; and, in short, that the papers refer to your lost uncle Rety.”

”This is indeed strange!” said Akosh.

”You know how people _will_ talk. Your father's friends.h.i.+p for Vandory, and the curate's power over him, which is even greater than his wife's influence, and a thousand other things, have made people believe that he must have some means of acting upon your father; yes, that he knows of something which it would not be convenient to tell to everybody; and since the attempted robbery, there is not a blockhead in the county but swears that there is something wrong somewhere.”

”All I can say is, that this is a strange thing. Here we have two robberies in less than two months, evidently for the purpose of obtaining the papers; but then----”

Here the conversation was interrupted by Janosh, who entered with the surgeon of St. Vilmosh.

”There, sir! there's some ice to put on your arm, and here's the _sawbones_. h.e.l.l put things to right in no time.”

The little man who was thus unceremoniously introduced as a ”sawbones,”

cast an angry look at the hussar, walked up to his patient, examined the wound, and expressed his satisfaction with its appearance and condition; while Janosh, who always lost his temper when he saw anybody but himself administering to his master's comforts, gnashed his teeth, grumbling and discontented. He was wrong; for Mr. Sherer, a Magyar of German extraction, who had successively exercised and failed in the various callings of shoemaker and barber, and who had become a surgeon by dint of great boldness, and by the grace of a rich widow, who had lent him money to pay for his diploma, was deserving of any thing but indignation. On the contrary, he was a very amiable man, who, during the sixteen years he had lived at St. Vilmosh, had never given occasion for the slightest complaint to those who, like Janosh, had never been ill.

”A nice wound! very nice! Yes, on my honour, pretty indeed!” said Sherer. ”On my word of honour, I never saw a prettier wound in my life.”

”I wish you'd been in the wars,” murmured Janosh, ”you'd have seen something like wounds, I tell you!”

”What do you know about it?” replied Sherer, ”you'd value a wound by its size. Now, on my word and honour, a large wound is not at all nice.”

”No, indeed not. But a small wound is; one that heals without troubling the sawbones.”

Doctor Sherer (for by that t.i.tle he loved to be called) turned away and asked:

”How has it pleased you to sleep, sir?”

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