“I am taking you to an old acquaintance, Homyak,” I said quietly; “to the Boyar Feodor Sergheievitch Ramodanofsky.” Homyak cried out in his agony of alarm, and almost wrenched himself from my grip. “Have mercy!” he shrieked, with a repetition of Polotsky’s abject terror. “Anything but that, M. le Vicomte; do with me as you will, but spare me that. I will tell anything, do anything if you will keep me from him.” I could not help sympathizing with his desire to escape; I could scarcely imagine a more relentless fate than the boyar. However, I saw my advantage, and merely hastened my steps, although I had literally to drag the dwarf by main force, while he begged for mercy. At the door, I found Von Gaden, and together we took the limp prisoner into the study, and there, while he cowered before my pistol, we cross-examined him, Von Gaden annoying me by his eagerness to fathom the dwarf’s connection with Ramodanofsky, while I was endeavoring to obtain information about Zénaïde. “Polotsky has confessed,” I said, “and it only remains for you to tell us what you know. Denials will not serve.” “I know nothing,” whined the dwarf, reassured by the absence of Ramodanofsky, and resuming his original pretense of ignorance. “Pshaw, Homyak!” interposed Von Gaden, sternly, “what is the use of lying to me? Do you think I have forgotten the attempted murder of Feodor Sergheievitch? Do you think you can escape his vengeance? There is no one to protect you. Vladimir has gone to meet the eternal justice.” The dwarf stared at him wildly. “Vladimir Sergheievitch dead?” he cried; and then a sudden thought brought a gleam to his eyes. “By the hand of Feodor?” he asked. “By his own act,” I retorted gravely; “and we know that you were employed to remove Mademoiselle Zénaïde Feodorovna from this house, and you must take us to the place where she is imprisoned. You were Vladimir’s agent.” “Yes,” interrupted Von Gaden again, to my annoyance, “just as you were employed fifteen years ago to stab Feodor on the threshold of his home.” “I was not,” cried the dwarf, vehemently. “Vladimir Sergheievitch stabbed his brother himself; I only witnessed it.” “It is easy to accuse the dead,” retorted Von Gaden, scornfully. “It is true,” protested Homyak, angered and frightened by the physician’s mocking manner. “I knew it all, and he feared me,--feared I would betray him to the Czar Alexis.” “Yet you were guilty, Homyak,” said the other, calmly; “it was you who stripped the dead body of the prisoner and put the clothes on Feodor, while he was yet unconscious.” The dwarf cowered, watching his interlocutor as if under a spell.