"Aha, who is this?" cried Lievenkopp as Ráby entered. "Why, bless me, it's Mathias Ráby!" "Yes, indeed, captain. Perhaps you can guess my errand here?" "Truly, I cannot do any such thing." "Well, my wife has run away from me." "The deuce she has! What already? I did not think she would have gone quite so soon." "I went first of all to Judge Petray to demand satisfaction of him. He would not give it me, but referred me to you." "That was very kind of him." "Now you know why I come." "I know it, comrade, you want to fight me, sure enough? Very good; just choose one of these gentlemen as your second, and we will decide with him on the weapons. Only one thing delays our immediate meeting, and that is, I have to fight Gyöngyöm Miska." Ráby was electrified as he heard the name. "Can't you leave him till later? You will never succeed in catching him." "Aha, I've got him this time though; I am going at this very hour to fight a duel with him." "Do you know who this Gyöngyöm Miska really is?" asked Ráby. "Why he lives at Szent-Torony, two hours' journey from here, where he owns an estate, and is called Karcsatáji Miska. He is the notorious robber, and no other. This is why he is never to be caught red-handed. When he is everywhere driven into a corner, he goes quietly back home, throws off the highwayman's gear, and whoever seeks him there, finds instead of the fierce robber with lank locks and drooping moustaches, a harmless country gentleman, with his powdered hair done in a neat cue, whom twelve witnesses can swear to not having left home for weeks. No one will ever succeed in convicting him. But this once I've caught my gentleman nicely. Listen to how I did it. This very day when we had planned our attack upon the band of Gyöngyöm Miska, we observed a suspicious-looking fellow trying to get in between our railings. We arrested him, searched him, and found sewn into the sole of his sandal, this letter to Mr. Michael Karcsatáji. You probably will know the handwriting." Ráby recognised the writing of his wife. "Yes, you can read it, you will understand it better than we do." The letter ran thus: "Dear Miska,--Don't have any scruples about the affair in the Styrian wood. The whole suspicion falls on someone who will not be able to prove an _alibi_. Thine own one." Ráby's arms fell helplessly at his side. It was as if he had suddenly been stung by a cobra. His own wife was the traitor who had betrayed him to his enemies! A dagger-thrust in the dark does not hurt one so much as such a discovery. Ráby distrusted his senses; he would not, could not believe it; he thought he must be dreaming.