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!”