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.