Count Sandoff was a short, portly man, some sixty years of age. His features, once handsome and aristocratic, had become coarse and bloated by reason of many years of constant and excessive dissipation. As already stated, the count was on bad terms with his nephew Victor, and the cause of this estrangement shall be explained.
When Victor’s mother died—shortly before the assassination of her husband—she left to the latter her fortune, the income to be used by him during his lifetime, and the principal to revert to Victor at his father’s death. But the property was not legally tied up, and knowing this, Count Sandoff, who needed a large sum of money to retrieve recent losses at the gaming table, applied to his brother for a loan of one hundred thousand rubles from his deceased wife’s estate. Colonel Sandoff refused the request absolutely. He was a man of honor, and knew how little chance there was of the money being returned. Moreover, some years before, when the position of the brothers was reversed, a similar request on his part—though for a much smaller sum—had been indignantly refused by the count, who could easily have spared the money at that time.
From this point dated the coolness between the brothers; and when, after the death of his father, Victor came into possession of his inheritance, the count’s animosity toward his nephew deepened. He envied the young man the possession of so much wealth, which he fancied should, at least in part, have belonged to him. Indeed he went so far as to enter into a conspiracy with one of Victor’s own men—a very ambitious and unscrupulous fellow—with a view to accomplishing the downfall of his nephew by whatever foul means the course of events might offer. Up to the present time nothing had been accomplished, in spite of the count’s influence, which by the way was considerable. The name of his assistant in this nefarious plot was Serge Zamosc.
Perhaps the count’s thoughts were dwelling on the family feud this evening, for his face wore a bitter expression as he pored over the columns of the paper. Finally he flung the sheet aside with a muttered curse, and reached for a bell cord with the intention of summoning his servant. But before he could touch it a shadow fell across the doorway, and Serge Zamosc entered the room with an ease of manner that showed him to be a frequent and unannounced visitor.
“Oh, it’s you, is it?” said the count curtly. “Sit down. Nothing new, I suppose? Have a glass of wine?”
“Yes to the first question, no to the last,” replied Zamosc quietly, as he settled himself in an easy chair by the count’s side.
“What! Has your clever brain discovered a plan?” demanded the latter, suddenly becoming animated. “Do you mean to say that I shall succeed at last—after all this time! Don’t keep me in suspense. Explain yourself.”
“Softly, softly,” replied Zamosc. “I said nothing of the sort, did I? But let us suppose that I had succeeded—that I had discovered a sure and speedy way of accomplishing your object. Would you in that event be prepared to carry out the agreement you made some time ago?”
“You are concealing something,” growled the count in reply. “Why don’t you come to the point, Zamosc? You know how impatient I am. But stop—I will answer your question. In case you had really accomplished what you suggest, I would keep my word to the letter. I would see to it that you were appointed Inspector of the Third Section, in place of my nephew, and I would give you in addition the sum of ten thousand rubles.”