The little village inn was full
to overflowing and the hum of voices within was like the noise of
an excited beehive. Everyone had some new explanation, some new
guess, and it was not until the notary arrived, looking even more
important than usual, that silence fell upon the excited throng.
But the expectations aroused by his coming were not fulfilled. The
notary knew no more than the others although he had been one of the
searchers in the rectory. But he was in no haste to disclose his
ignorance, and sat wrapped in a dignified silence until some one
found courage to question him.
"Was there nothing stolen?" he was asked.
"No, nothing as far as we can tell yet. But if it was the gypsies
--as may be likely--they are content with so little that it would
not be noticed."
"Gypsies?" exclaimed one man scornfully. "It doesn't have to be
gypsies, we've got enough tramps and vagabonds of our own. Didn't
they kill the pedlar for the sake of a bag of tobacco, and old
Katiza for a couple of hens?"
"Why do you rake up things that happened twenty years ago?" cried
another over the table. "You'd better tell us rather who killed Red
Betty, and pulled Janos, the smith's farm hand, down into the swamp?"
"Yes, or who cut the bridge supports, when the brook was in flood,
so that two good cows broke through and drowned?"
"Yes, indeed, if we only knew what band of robbers and villains it
is that is ravaging our village.
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