Michael would be well guarded, and wary. But his vigilance might be relaxed by artifice. Peter had not yet formulated his plan, but there would be many pretexts for getting closely in touch with Kirsakoff. Peter might even represent that he had come to enter into secret negotiations with Kirsakoff on behalf of the American government. That was one of the many possible plans which flitted through Peter’s brain. But the business would require care in preparation and good judgment in its execution. All impulses toward prompt decision must be put aside—it would be a patient waiting for the minute which promised success without attaching the slightest suspicion to Lieutenant Peter Gordon of the American army. That could be done only after a period of slowly acquiring the confidence of Michael. Peter would have to build up a pretended sympathy with the old régime and its adherents, and show a willingness to aid Zorogoff and Kirsakoff in gaining the friendship of the American forces—even plan to aid in betraying the people of Russia in their aspirations for freedom. Peter saw himself dining with Kirsakoff as a guest of the general; he built in his imagination a succession of secret conferences with Kirsakoff, and then, perhaps during an evening over wine and cigarettes, a whisper to Michael, “Do you know who I am in truth? Peter Petrovitch, son of Gorekin the bootmaker——!” and then the bullet and the escape. Peter could see Michael turn his horrified eyes upon the smiling American officer who was really the son of an exile. Gorekin the bootmaker! Michael might not remember at first. How could a Governor be expected to carry in his memory a poor unfortunate, and a boy of twenty years before? But Peter would make Michael remember. There must be time for that so that Michael should know by whose hand he died. That would be necessary if Peter was to have his complete joy in his vengeance. When the sun had dropped over the crest of the hills, and the frost was gradually creeping upward on the panes, etching a thick tropical foliage upon the glass, Peter went to the window and looked out over the Valley of Despair. The little hut of his boyhood was merging slowly into the shadows of the taller buildings about it. Tiny sparks appeared in the white smoke rising from the hut’s stone chimney—Rimsky was evidently feeding the fire-pit for the night. Peter stood by the window musing on the bitter days and nights of the exiles long dead and forgotten—on the staggering columns coming in afoot over the Czar’s road to a living death, on the clanking of chains and fetters, on the screams in the nights as some cabal of exiles “roofed” one who had betrayed some breaking of the rules to the guards, on the barking of rifles as fugitives were hunted out of the hills.