“General Kirsakoff.” Her eyes held his as she spoke the name. She saw his eyelids lift swiftly, and heard him draw in his breath slowly. His hands began to close into fists, and the strong fingers sank into the palms while the knuckles grew white as the skin was drawn tautly across. He leaned back in his chair, and the little muscles of his jaws stood out under the skin of his cheeks as he set his teeth together. And there crept into his face a look of exultation, of infinite satisfaction—she saw him thrilled with the joy of the hunter who at last gets sight of his prey. Peter turned away from Katerin and glanced at the window, but without seeing it. His face softened into a smile, and he got up from his chair, crossed the room, came back, and sat down again before her. “Tell me more about this Kirsakoff,” he urged. “What is his name?” “Michael Alexandrovitch,” she said. “He is a man of noble family—of old boyar stock. He ruled here many years before the revolution.” Katerin pretended not to notice the smile which was still playing at the corners of Peter’s mouth—she looked at him casually as he sat down again, but busied herself making squares and circles on the tablecloth with her finger. “Is Kirsakoff in the city—now?” he asked. “I presume so. He spends most of his time here, but he keeps well hidden.” “Do you know where he may be found? Where he lives?” “It could be easily learned. What would be the good of knowing?” “It does not matter,” he said. “Still, it might be of use to know. Do you think you could easily find out whether he is in the city or not? How would you go about it?” “My father was an exile here,” said Katerin. “He was transported ten years ago, and I followed from Moscow and lived in the Street of the Dames. My father was a political—and he knows too much now about Kirsakoff for our safety.” “Then your father is in the city?” asked Peter. “Here in the hotel with me. We came here and hid against Zorogoff—and Kirsakoff. That is why I came to you when I heard there was an American staying here. We knew we could trust you.” She went on and told him how Zorogoff’s soldiers, and the Ataman himself, had given her and her father the mental torture with firing squads; of the threat of the Ataman for revenge upon her for her insults, and the flight from the house to the hotel when they heard that an American was at the hotel. But she did not mention Rimsky or Ilya. “And you have no way of escape from the city?” asked Peter. “It is impossible,” said Katerin. “Some of our friends got away. But Zorogoff put the cordons round the city after that, and then Kirsakoff joined with Zorogoff.” “What kind of man is this Kirsakoff? What does he look like?” asked Peter, set upon getting all he could about his enemy.