"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 mysterious Fedyukov has signed his name again!" said Navagin,