“I am Lutoff, a lieutenant in the army of the Ataman Zorogoff,” went on the Cossack with pride. “I heard that there was an American officer in the hotel—and I was about to call upon you this very evening.” “That is very kind of you,” said Peter, seeing that there was some purpose after all in the matter of the supper ticket beyond the characteristic hospitality of all Cossacks. He saw that he would have to play the game, whatever it might be. “My name is Gordon, and I also am a lieutenant.” Lutoff bowed again. “Please sit down with me,” invited Peter, and they both sat down facing each other across the small table. Peter did not like Lutoff any too well—there was a craftiness in his eyes, an insincere suavity in his manner, an affability about him that was forced. His friendliness lacked a frankness which he did his best to simulate, but behind his smiles and his politeness there was a promise of lurking menace. “You have not called upon the Ataman,” said Lutoff lightly, half in question, yet half in the nature of a statement of fact—perhaps a challenge. “No,” said Peter. “I was three weeks coming up on the train, and my health was hurt—I have been resting.” “I trust you will feel better soon,” said Lutoff. He uttered the words as if he meant more than that—Peter caught an implication that it would be well for him not to neglect calling upon the Ataman. “Were you intending to pay an official call this evening?” asked Peter. He thought it advisable to probe a bit after Lutoff’s obscure inferences. “No, just for a friendly chat. You speak Russian well for an American. You must have been in the country before.” Lutoff offered his cigarette case, a ponderous silver box covered with semiprecious stones of various kinds and studded with raised metal initials—mostly gold—of friends who had added to its ornate embellishments. “My father was in business in Moscow. I was born and grew up there,” lied Peter glibly, as he took a cigarette. He had no intention of taking Lutoff into confidence about his early life. He considered that none of the Cossack’s business, and the personal prying a trifle impertinent. “Are American soldiers coming to Chita?” pressed Lutoff. It was obvious now that he sought information for the Ataman. “Oh, yes,” said Peter easily. “I understand a battalion will be coming up the line. That is something I intend to take up with the Ataman—how many barracks are available in this vicinity.” Lutoff gave this consideration for several minutes, but made no comment. Then he looked over his shoulder toward the orchestra to make sure that no waiters were within hearing. “As a friend, I wish to tell you something,” he said in a low tone. “Thank you,” said Peter, but to all intents he was indifferent and smoked his cigarette with complacency. “While I belong to the Ataman’s staff, I am not speaking officially,” said Lutoff. “It is merely as one friend to another. You understand my attitude, of course.”