slapping his knee. "It's extraordinary! Again!
Again there is the signature of that fellow, goodness knows who he
is! Fedyukov! Again!"

Among the numerous signatures on the paper was the signature of a
certain Fedyukov. Who the devil this Fedyukov was, Navagin had not
a notion. He went over in his memory all his acquaintances, relations
and subordinates in the service, recalled his remote past but could
recollect no name like Fedyukov. What was so strange was that this
_incognito_, Fedyukov, had signed his name regularly every Christmas
and Easter for the last thirteen years. Neither Navagin, his wife,
nor his house porter knew who he was, where he came from or what
he was like.

"It's extraordinary!" Navagin thought in perplexity, as he paced
about the study. "It's strange and incomprehensible! It's like
sorcery!"

"Call the porter here!" he shouted.

"It's devilish queer! But I will find out who he is!"

"I say, Grigory," he said, addressing the porter as he entered,
"that Fedyukov has signed his name again! Did you see him?"

"No, your Excellency."

"Upon my word, but he has signed his name! So he must have been in
the hall. Has he been?"

"No, he hasn't, your Excellency."

"How could he have signed his name without being there?"

"I can't tell."

"Who is to tell, then? You sit gaping there in the hall. Try and
remember, perhaps someone you didn't know came in? Think a minute!"

"No, your Excellency, there has been no one I didn't know. Our
clerks have been, the baroness came to see her Excellency, the
priests have been with the Cross, and there has been no one else. . . ."

"Why, he was invisible when he signed his name, then, was he?"

"I can't say: but there has been no Fedyukov here. That I will swear
before the holy image. . . ."

"It's queer! It's incomprehensible! It's ex-traordinary!" mused
Navagin. "It's positively ludicrous. A man has been signing his
name here for thirteen years and you can't find out who he is.
Perhaps it's a joke? Perhaps some clerk writes that name as well
as his own for fun."

And Navagin began examining Fedyukov's signature.

The bold, florid signature in the old-fashioned style with twirls
and flourishes was utterly unlike the handwriting of the other
signatures. It was next below the signature of Shtutchkin, the
provincial secretary, a scared, timorous little man who would
certainly have died of fright if he had ventured upon such an
impudent joke.

"The