“What course will the law take?” asked Orszay.  “The poor unfortunate madman—­whose knife took all these lives—­cannot be held responsible, can he?”

“Oh, no; his misfortune protects him.  But as for the other, though his hands bear no actual bloodstains, he is more truly a murderer than the unhappy man who was his tool.  Hanging is too good for him.  There are times when even I could wish that we were back in the Middle Ages, when it was possible to torture a prisoner.

“You do not look like that sort of a man,” smiled the doctor through his sadness.

“No, I am the most good-natured of men usually, I think—­the meekest anyway,” answered Muller.  “But a case like this—.  However, as I said before, keep a stout heart, doctor, and do not waste time in unnecessary self-reproachings.”  The detective pressed the doctor’s hand warmly and walked down the hill towards the village.

He went at once to the office of the magistrate and made his report, then returned to the rectory and packed his grip.  He arranged for its transport to the railway station, as he himself preferred to walk the inconsiderable distance.  He passed through the village and had just entered the open fields when he met Janci with his flock.  The shepherd hastened his steps when he saw the detective approaching.

“You have found him, sir?” he exclaimed as he came up to Muller.  The men had come to be friends by this time.  The silent shepherd with the power of second sight had won Muller’s interest at once.

“Yes, I found him.  It is Gyuri, the warder at the asylum.”

“No, sir, it is not Gyuri—­Gyuri did not do it.”

“But when I tell you that he did?”

“But I tell you, sir, that Gyuri did not do it.  The man who did it—­he has yellowish hands—­I saw them—­I saw big yellowish hands.  Gyuri’s hands are big, but they are brown.”

“Janci, you are right.  I was only trying to test you.  Gyuri did not do it; that is, he did not do it with his own hands.  The man who held the knife that struck down the pastor was Varna, the crazy mechanician.”

Janci beat his forehead.  “Oh, I am a foolish and useless dreamer!” he exclaimed; “of course it was Varna’s hands that I saw.  I have seen them a hundred times when he came down into the village, and yet when I saw them in the vision I did not recognise them.”

“We’re all dreamers, Janci—­and our dreams are very useless generally.”

“Yours are not useless, sir,” said the shepherd.  “If I had as much brains as you have, my dreams might be of some good.”

Muller smiled.  “And if I had your visions, Janci, it would be a powerful aid to me in my profession.”

“I don’t think you need them, sir.  You can find out the hidden things without them.  You are going to leave us?”

“Yes, Janci, I must go back to Budapest, and from there to Vienna.  They need me on another case.”