samovar girl.” This was direct angling for enlightenment as to why she
was serving as a samovar girl—he wanted to give her a chance to set
herself right with him. If she did happen to be a spy, it would make it
easy for her to improvise a history for herself and so find it easy to
talk with him and deflect his suspicions—if she thought he was
suspicious of her true status. He knew it was quite possible that she
was a refugee who had turned “worker” for protection against the wrath
of the masses toward the wealthy.
“People once rich are now poor,” said Katerin, and looked at him
significantly. She was hoping that he might take this hint, and by a
closer scrutiny, recognize her as Kirsakoff’s daughter. In that case, he
would make it known to her that he had come from friends to find her and
her father. But, as a matter of fact, Peter had forgotten that Kirsakoff
had a daughter—except for a little girl.
“And it is necessary now that you work?” he asked.
“It is most necessary. I must have food and shelter by some method.”
“You are working here—as a samovar girl—for food and shelter? Is it as
bad as that with you?”
“Why not I as well as others?” she asked simply, with a shrug of her
shoulders. “And others have fared worse. What better could I do while I
wait—for friends—to send help to me—and my people?”
Once more she gave him that steady gaze which she thought would add
meaning to her words, but though his face was serious, not a glimmer of
understanding did she see in his eyes. She thought it strange that if he
had been sent to rescue her father and herself he could not grasp the
meaning behind her words and her glances. Surely, he would have been
shown a picture of her, or have a description of her from friends which
would cause him to recognize the daughter of Michael Kirsakoff easily.
There were not so many young women of her age, education, and appearance
in Chita, she knew.
She turned her eyes from his, and colored again, embarrassed by having
looked so long and steadily into the eyes of a stranger. She drew him a
glass full of hot water from the samovar for a fresh glass of tea and by
this means covered her sense of having appeared too bold with a strange
man.
“So you are waiting for help to come to you, eh?” asked Peter. He pitied
her—yet he was still reserving his judgment about her. It was possible
that her story was only to mislead him as to her real motive in bringing
the samovar to his room.
Katerin smiled sadly. “Yes, I wait for a chance to get away from the
city. We have sent letters to friends in Harbin and in Vladivostok—weeks
ago, months ago. We are not sure that they got the letters, for we have
had no answer. Yet we hope some one will come to help us. Perhaps—_they
will send some one to us_,” she added with special significance and
looked at him again with intent eyes.
Peter was puzzled now. He saw that she was trying to make him understand
something without putting it into words—it might be that she was seeking
to learn for some other person what his object was in coming to Chita.
Or he had been mistaken for some other person who was expected.
“Why do you not go to Vladivostok yourself?” he asked, evading saying
anything that bore upon what he was thinking. “The trains are running.
Is it lack of money that prevents you from going?”
“No, not money,” she said, and then with a glance at the door, she
lowered her voice to almost a whisper. “Do you not know about the Ataman
Zorogoff who is in this city?”
“Yes, I have heard of him. I hope to know more about him. The Americans
want to help the people. Perhaps you will tell me about Zorogoff.”
Peter thought that was enough for him to say about Zorogoff. He did not
care to commit himself on the subject of the Ataman—did not wish to
betray any antagonism toward the Mongol ruler. The Ataman was a man to
be wary about, and Peter had no intention of taking this girl into his
confidence as to where he might stand in any matter which involved
Zorogoff.
Katerin suddenly clenched her hands. “Do the Americans think they can
help us if they remain in Vladivostok?” she demanded with passion. Then
she lapsed back into her easy manner as suddenly as she had blurted out
her feelings, and turned as if she would go.
“Please wait!” he commanded. “This is something that it would be well
for me to know.” Then dropping his voice as she paused and looked back
at him over her shoulder, he went on, “You mean that the people are
oppressed by the Ataman Zorogoff?”
She returned and stood before the samovar, as if settling in her mind
what her answer should be.
“I think I had better not talk about the Ataman,” she said finally. “He
is not a safe subject for discussion by a poor and helpless samovar
girl.”
“Tell me,” he urged, bending forward and speaking confidentially, “are
you in danger from the Ataman?”
She gave him that quick look again, as if she were not quite sure that
he could be trusted. “It is better for me not to talk of the Ataman—but
I am a samovar girl here for my own safety—till some one comes for
me—_and my father_.”
Once more he understood that he was to get some meaning from her words.
He noticed that a sudden change had come over her—there was a softer
look in her eyes, as if she had abandoned all thought of using any
artifice with him and was on the verge of giving him her confidence. Her
eyes seemed to burn with a kindlier light for him.
Peter was right about Katerin. She was at that time strongly tempted to
tell him who she was. She watched him with a quivering expectancy,
waiting for him to whisper to her that he was the man who had been sent
by her friends to find her and Michael Kirsakoff. But when he said
nothing and observed her without any sign that he had comprehended her
meaning in words or looks, she felt a fear that perhaps she had gone too
far in her attempts to enlighten him as to her identity.
“Do you live here—in Chita?” he asked. It was in his mind that this was
a good time to test her as to whether she might have any knowledge of
Kirsakoff. He realized that if she had her home in Chita, she was of the
class who would know the former Governor.
Katerin’s lips moved as if to reply, but she did not speak. She had
recovered her caution. She wanted to evade the answer, for once more she
had built up a mental resistance against him and was beginning to be
afraid. She realized that if she pretended to be a stranger in the city
she would defeat his purpose if he had really come from friends, by
misleading him. If she told him that she was a stranger in the city he
would be thrown entirely off the track and never suspect that she was
Katerin Stephanovna Kirsakoff.
“I have been in Chita long enough to know it well,” she said. “And I
have been here long enough to be willing to go, too.”
“Then you have friends here,” he said. “You must know many of the
people—the wealthy people, that is.”
“They are almost all gone—or dead. Most of them are in Vladivostok, or
in hiding here. But we cannot get away now—it is impossible for us to
leave by ourselves. We wait for our friends—_to send us help_.” That
should be plain enough for him, she thought.
“How would they send help?” he asked. “You mean that they would send
soldiers?”
“Perhaps they would send a man who would be able to take us away from
the city—they might even send a—foreigner. A man Zorogoff would not dare
to hinder from going with us.”
Peter now had full understanding of her searching looks, her broad hints
about help, and her surprise at finding that he spoke perfect Russian
though supposed to be an American. Also, he saw her reason for coming to
him as a samovar girl—unless she was really a spy delving into his
object for being in the city.
“I am sorry I have been so stupid,” he said. “You must think I am a
fool—but I am not a messenger sent by your friends.”
Katerin was standing at the far end of the table from him, close by the
door. He saw her turn pale, either with sudden fear of him, or great
disappointment that she had revealed to him that she was expecting a
messenger. She was calm enough, but he saw that his admission that he
was not the expected messenger, chilled her with some unaccountable
terror.
It was this that had terrified Katerin: This American now denied that he
was seeking her father—but where had Ilya gotten the word that an
American was hunting for Michael Kirsakoff? And this American was really
a Russian! Could it be that instead of being a friend, or from friends,
he was in reality an enemy? What could this man want with her father?
she asked herself. He could not have come from friends, else he would
have easily recognized her. And if he had asked Rimsky for the
whereabouts of Michael Kirsakoff and was willing that the old
cigarette-seller and Ilya Andreitch the pig-killing _moujik_ should know
that he was seeking Kirsakoff, why was he not willing that she should
know of his quest? She saw that he was willing to ally himself with
peasants but withheld the object of his coming to the city from
aristocrats. She saw that she had failed in misleading him as to her
class. He gave his secrets to peasants—thus he must be an enemy to her
father and herself!
She laughed suddenly, as if all that had passed between them had been a
joke. She must change her tactics and get his secret. She must not
arouse his suspicions as to her identity now, but baffle him in every
way, for if he were not a friend he must be a new menace to her and her
father.
“Of course you are not the messenger,” she said, and returning to the
samovar, took down the teapot, shook it swingingly and looked into it.
Her face was flushed again under the excitement of what she had
discovered about him. “Come! Have another glass of tea,
please—_master!_” She gave a joking twist to the last word, and threw
back her head and laughed gayly.
“But it is too bad if you have been expecting a messenger,” said Peter.
“Oh, it is nothing. Everybody in Siberia is waiting to hear from
friends! You Americans! You are too serious about everything—what does
it matter if you be not the man?”
But Peter _was_ serious. He almost wished now that he had led her to
believe that he was a messenger. For he was afraid that she would go
away and he would see her no more. He wanted to see her again and again,
and in time bring their conversation to the subject of the former
governor and get from her some information as to where he might look for
Kirsakoff.
“Is it true that you are in danger?” he asked. “That you must get away
from the city?”
“We are all in danger here,” she retorted. “Trust no one—the city is
full of spies, and you must be careful what you say—even what you say to
me.”
“But I think I could trust you,” he said conciliatingly.
“Please don’t trust me. I would rather not have any secrets. The
greatest danger in this city is in having a secret which some person
wants. I prefer to know nothing and be safe.”
“Perhaps I could be of help to you,” said Peter, having an idea that by
offering protection he could gain her confidence and learn from her
where Kirsakoff might be found. “I am an American officer, and if I
should employ you for my government no one would dare threaten your
safety.”
“Perhaps you could help me,” she said thoughtfully. “But I know little
about you—what part of Russia are you from?”
Peter hesitated. It would not do to tell her he had been a boy in Chita
for that news would start gossip, and he would be under suspicion at
once if Kirsakoff were killed. He drank some tea before he answered the
question.
“Oh, I have not been in Russia for years—I left Kiev when I was a boy.
Come! What is your name? We must be friends if we are going to go into
these matters.”
“What is your name?” she countered.
“Call me Peter—that is my name.”
“Peter! That is no name for a Russian. What are your other names?”
“Peter Petrovitch.”
She laughed at him with a touch of saucy insouciance, and lifted her
shoulders as if she put small faith in the name. “What is your generic
name?”
“Gordon, but I hoped you might call me Peter Petrovitch—it has been many
years since I heard it thus. You make me forget that I am an American,
I, who am Russian.”
She turned toward the door. “I am afraid that I must go now,” she said.
He rose from his chair and moved after her. “But you have not given me
your name.”
“Call me Vashka.”
“But that is no name for a Russian,” he insisted. “The generic name,
please.”
“That will do for now—it is good enough for a samovar girl.” She moved
toward the door, but lingeringly, as if she had other things she would
say but refrained from saying them at this time.
“Ah, but I know you are not really a samovar girl,” he said seriously.
“You are a lady, and I shall be happy to help you and serve you if it is
in my power. Promise that you will come back to me.”
“Perhaps I shall come,” she replied, and smiled over her shoulder at
him. She felt unable to cope with him at this time, knowing that Ilya
had said he sought her father. She knew that before she talked with him
further she must consider the matter and consult with the sagacious
Slipitsky. “You are very kind,” she said, smiled again, and went through
the door.
Peter bowed as she disappeared, looking back at him from the hall as if
fearful that he would run after her and see where she went. But he
closed the door, and stood smiling at himself in the big mirror—smiling
over his thoughts of the amazing samovar girl he had found in Chita!
------------------------------------------------------------------------
XV
THE TRAP SHUTS
SLIPITSKY was with Michael when Katerin returned from Peter’s room. The
old Jew was consumed with curiosity about the American, and worried for
the safety of his guests, for he sensed menace in the stranger. Schooled
all his life in the secret intrigues among exiles and living in an
atmosphere of spies and counter spies, he had an astounding mental
perception in devious ways. The fact that Rimsky and Ilya, two peasants,
had knowledge of the American which pointed to some hidden purpose in
his arrival in the city, was proof enough to Slipitsky that something
was seriously wrong. The chasm of caste in Siberia prevents an officer
from dealing with the lower class of peasants—unless he is using them
for an advantage against his own class. To the Russian, an officer comes
from the upper classes, so the idea that Peter could have ever been a
peasant was beyond the comprehension of Slipitsky or Kirsakoff.
Katerin slipped into the room quickly and fastened the bolt of the door.
Slipitsky rose from his chair and turned to her inquiringly, but she put
her finger to her lips for caution. Michael was sitting on the bed. He
saw the trouble in Katerin’s face, and knew that she could not bring the
good news which they had hoped for—that the American had come from
friends.
“What is the word?” whispered Slipitsky. “What says the American?”
“He is a Russian!” said Katerin.
“Holy Saints!” gasped Michael, astounded, and his head began to shake
with excitement.
“Russian!” exclaimed Slipitsky, looking at Katerin as if what she had
said exceeded all probability. “How could he be a Russian? Is it that he
has come to my house dressed as an American and is really a spy?”
“All I know is that he speaks the Czar’s Russian,” said Katerin. “He has
not come from friends,” and then she went on and hastily told them how
she had given Peter every hint that she dared, so that he might
understand who she was, and that he had denied being sent to Chita to
help anybody.
“Then that fool of an Ilya was lying!” said Michael wrathfully. “He has
made fools of us! We came here expecting to find a dove and we have
found a hawk. Ilya had sand in his brains! It was all done to fool us
and get money! An American who is a Russian—what good can he do us?”
“Hah! A riddle!” said the Jew, and he rubbed his hands and drew himself
a fresh glass of tea. “Now we must consider what it all means,
Excellence! The rope is tangled and we must find the end of it!”
Michael sat for a few minutes with his eyes screwed up against the light
from the window, his wrinkled old face twitching nervously. Presently he
got up and began to pace the floor in his stockinged feet, hands behind
his back, his shoulders bent forward in dejection. His weak knees bent
beneath him as he shuffled about. His body quivered with excitement and
his eyes glowed as if he were racked by a fever.
Katerin sat down by Slipitsky, and stared at the floor in reflection,
seeking to piece together in her mind again the whole time of her visit
to Peter and to gauge the value of what both of them had said. If only
Ilya were still alive and could be questioned as to how he had learned
that the American wanted to find her father!
“He knew at once that I was not of the servant class,” said Katerin.
“Only a Russian could do that,” mused Slipitsky. “It is all very
strange,” and he wagged his head slowly and thoughtfully as he puzzled
over it. “Did he tell you why he had come to Chita at all?—did he say
nothing of his mission to this place?”
“Nothing. Yet if Ilya spoke the truth, Rimsky was told why the American
had come. Why does he trust a _moujik_ and hide his purpose from me?”
“It would not be wise to have too many in the secret,” said the Jew. “He
knew you were not what you pretended to be, and was careful. The man who
rides a tiger cannot get off, and this Peter Petrovitch from Kiev is not
too trusting. I give him credit for that, though we would like to know
his business.”
“He is an enemy!” declared Michael.
“Then we shall know in good time,” said the Jew. “An awl cannot be
hidden in a sack.”
“A Russian from America—the worst of all,” said Michael into Slipitsky’s
ear, as the old general came and hung over the Jew’s chair. “They come
back here from America with their accursed ideas of liberty! And what do
they do? Kill the Czar and ruin the country—turn it over to the Mongols!
Old friend, we have an enemy on our hands who is a greater danger than
the Ataman. And we have brought trouble to you and your house.”
“We are all in the same boat, Excellence. If we lose our wits, we are
lost. I am no worse for your coming, and you are no worse. The thing to
do is to weigh and consider—and in time settle with this fellow who
calls himself an American officer but hunts with peasants.”
Katerin was discouraged. She had set her hopes on the American’s coming
to solve their problems and relieve them of the danger from the Ataman.
But now they were involved in a new puzzle, and could not see their way
out of it. For more than two years she and her father had managed to
save themselves, but now it seemed that all their bravery, all their
devices and stratagems had but pushed them further into a trap. Life had
become an intolerable nightmare, and the trifles of daily existence had
become a burden. It seemed easier to die than to go on with the struggle
against the madness which had come over their world.
Michael went roaming about the room again while Katerin and Slipitsky
sat in thought. He gazed abstractedly at the furniture, as if he
expected to find in it some astounding quality which he had never
noticed before. After he had walked about in this way for several
minutes, he returned to his position between the chairs of his daughter
and the old Jew, and leaning down between them, whispered, “We must rid
ourselves of this man! We cannot live here under his nose and wait for
him to strike. He is a Russian hunting me. That is no new thing—but it
proves he wants me for no good. We must poison him!”
“No, no!” said Katerin, taking her father’s arm and pulling him toward
her. “We cannot kill a man just because Ilya said Rimsky told him the
stranger was seeking you—we must learn from Rimsky what we can, as much
of the truth as we can get.”
“I say that, also,” declared Slipitsky. “It must be done. I shall send
for Rimsky and question him so that he will not know the reason for my
questions.”
“What! You will let Rimsky know that we are here?” asked Michael,
alarmed at the idea.
“No, Excellence. But I can comb him for what he knows. A few drinks of
wine and he will be as putty in my hands. You must trust to me to solve
this riddle.”
“Then it is well,” said Michael. “But I am resolved upon one thing—we
must do away with this American, no matter what Rimsky says.”
“I shall send for Rimsky at once,” said the Jew, rising and going to the
door. “Be careful till I have had a talk with the old liar.” And with a
gesture of caution, Slipitsky drew the bolt and disappeared in the hall.
Katerin secured the bolt, and sat down again, her hands clenched in her
lap. She felt that she was at the end of her resistance. Yet she went on
trying to think of some way in which to learn from Peter the truth of
why he had come to Chita. There was no reason to fear him, so long as he
did not know who she was. And there was a chance that the talk that he
had come for her father was all foolishness, or a shrewd scheme to play
upon the fears of herself and her father and gain money. In that case,
she saw that the American might be a protection—that he might take them
from the city.
“I shall go back to him and talk,” she said to her father.
“You shall go back to poison his samovar,” said Michael. “I have a
feeling that this man knows already who you are, and is blinding your
eyes. You must end his life!”
“Would you have me murder an innocent man on the word of Ilya?” she
asked, making talk now only to keep her father’s mind engaged and
prevent him from the despondency which threatened him.
“This man is an enemy!” insisted Michael. “We cannot risk such a menace.
We have trouble enough with the Ataman, and I speak only for your own
safety. Oh, Katerin Stephanovna! I care nothing for my own life! It is
you I would save. I would sell the days I have left to live if they
could be turned into years for you, my daughter. I would die this
minute, if I could loan you life!”
The old general put his hand on her head and caressed her gently, his
eyes full of tears and his body shaking with his sorrow for her.
“I know, little father,” she whispered, taking his hands in hers and
kissing the withered skin. “But your life is dear to me—so dear that I
would do as you say to save you to me. But I cannot believe that this
young man intends to harm us. He is a Russian, true enough, but have you
lost faith in all of our people? And this Peter Petrovitch appears to be
kind and gentle. You and Slipitsky think in the old ways—only the old
thoughts of violence and death. This man has been to America and he may
not be an enemy at all. But if it is true that he is seeking you out for
evil, then we must be sure of that before we do anything against him.”
“And how are you to find it out? Can you go to him and tell him that I
am in the next room and ask him what he seeks me for? Do you forget that
he is using peasants to trace me?”
“I shall learn his secret,” declared Katerin. “A woman has her own ways
for such things—if he hunts you, he shall first tell me, and the why of
it.”
“Ah, you women trust too much,” said her father. “This is a matter in
which no time must be lost with wiles. We must know before the Ataman
finds——”
“I, too, think of the Ataman,” put in Katerin. “What if the American,
though an enemy, should protect us from the Ataman?”
Michael gave her an incredulous stare. “Impossible!” he said.
“But it is not impossible,” insisted Katerin, who already had the
inspiration of a sudden way out of the difficulty. “What if I should
tell this American that I am seeking Michael Alexandrovitch? Would he
not confide in me then? And if both of us are seeking you, it is not
likely that he will keep his secret from me—especially if I should admit
to him that I plan to have your life.”
Michael sat down upon the bed, speechless for a moment at the boldness
of the plan.
“Holy Saints!” he whispered after a minute. “You would do that, Katerin
Stephanovna? That is something worthy of the best of the Czar’s police!
Ah, but you will be playing with fire—you will need your wits at every
instant.”
“True, I shall need my wits,” said Katerin. “I am willing to play with
fire, and match my wits against the stranger. And when I learn what I
want—then we shall need our wits all the more.”
“I am old and my head is addled,” said Michael. “Sometimes I think I
must be going mad—here I am, who was governor, hiding in my own city,
helpless and with——”
There came a cautious knock at the door. Katerin went to it, and heard
Slipitsky’s voice outside. She let him in—and with him was Wassili!
“You stupid one!” exclaimed Michael at sight of the old _moujik_. “Why
have you come here? The Ataman will——”
Slipitsky made frantic signals for quiet, and when he had shot the bolt
behind him, threw up his hands in an attitude of resignation.
Wassili was wrapped to the eyes against the cold, and stood dumbly
waiting till he should be asked what he had come for.
“This is the last of us!” whispered the Jew. “We shall all be killed
now! Zorogoff has been to your house, Excellence—and he told Wassili
where you were—here in my house—the floor and the room! So poor Wassili
has run away with the warning that you are discovered.”