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.