I paused to note the effect of my words, but there was absolutely none, although I had no doubt that he was surprised that his brother had thrown aside his disguise. He sat looking at me with an expression of sinister amusement still on his face, and twirling his moustache with his long, tapering fingers. I saw that I should be compelled to take the aggressive. “You are doubtless prepared, monsieur,” I said, “to furnish an account of your guardianship of Mademoiselle Ramodanofsky to her father, and to surrender the young lady to his protection.” Vladimir smiled, measuring me with a glance which was peculiarly exasperating. “I am entirely unprepared for your visit, M. de Brousson,” he said calmly; “singularly so, in fact, since the person from whom you say you come has been dead fifteen years. It is the first time that I have ever received an envoy from a ghost, and I find it, M. le Vicomte, rather amusing.” “This is idle, M. Ramodanofsky,” I exclaimed impatiently; “you have more reason than any one to know that the boyar is not dead. It would be more rational to meet me on the ground of common sense than to fence with such an absurd declaration.” “My view and yours are naturally different, M. le Vicomte,” he replied with admirable composure. “As you remark, I have more reason than any one to know that my half-brother is dead. You have been deceived by an impostor; you will find it difficult, however, to convince any one else that the official dead in Russia rise so quickly.” I looked at his calmly sneering face with a sensation of baffled rage. It was a simple matter for him to assume this position, and I did not know how easily he might sustain it. “Nevertheless, I believe that there is occasionally a chance of reviving the official dead, and a train of unpleasant circumstances also, M. Ramodanofsky,” I said deliberately, meeting his eyes. “There is generally some personal risk about such resurrections, M. le Vicomte,” he replied composedly; “and I might remark further, that this is a specially unfavorable season for such operations.” His manner was exasperating me to a point where I knew that I was likely to allow my anger to get the better of my discretion. I rose from my chair, and stood confronting him. “All this is foreign to my mission, monsieur,” I said with what temper I could command. “Feodor Sergheievitch is as much alive as you are, and demands his daughter at your hands. It is a simple matter for you to give me the desired information, and time presses.” Vladimir laughed softly to himself, a laugh that did not show in his eyes or relax the expression of his face. “A very simple matter, M. le Vicomte,” he replied quietly; “but you forget that Mademoiselle Zénaïde is betrothed to the cousin of the czar, and it is possible that there may be a good deal to say about surrendering her to an impostor. It is not probable that you really believe that my brother, the saints rest his soul! is alive and in Moscow?”