He took a few more turns up and down the room till the hissing of the samovar drew his attention. He put the tea to brewing and waited listlessly till it should be ready. He drank several glasses of the steaming tea without any apparent relish of it or stimulation from it. He seemed in a stupor, as he sat staring at the floor, haggard and hollow-eyed. His face was drawn, and reflected the bitterness in his soul. He hunted his pockets for cigarettes, but found none. He looked under the table. There he saw a litter of flattened mouthpieces and matches, the remains of his night-long smoking. There came a gentle tapping at Katerin’s door. He sprang toward it and threw off the bolt. The door came open under his hand, and Katerin stood smiling at him. She did not look any too well, he thought—as if she had not slept herself. His eyes met hers, and he forced a smile. He bowed, and with a gesture invited her to enter. He did not look past her, but he was conscious of some one moving in the room beyond—her father’s room. “Good-morning,” she said. “I did not bring the samovar because I did not want to risk being seen in the hall.” Her voice was low, and there was a note of worry in it, as if she had already sensed something inimical in his manner, or in the close stale air of the room which reeked with the fumes of dead tobacco smoke. Peter turned toward the window to pull a chair from the writing table. “You—you are ill!” she exclaimed suddenly, giving him a look of concern. “And you have not slept!” She took in the undisturbed blankets on his bed. “Yes,” said Peter dully. “I have a cold—a headache. But it is nothing—see—I have already had my morning tea and feel better.” “I am sorry. You look as if you had suffered much,” and she sat down, still observing him with troubled doubt. She saw the exposed pistol in the holster, but refrained from anything which would indicate that she had noticed it. “What about Kirsakoff?” he asked, as if they should get to business. His words startled her, but she concealed from him any indication of her inner alarm. “I came to tell you,” she answered. “We sent Wassili out through the city last night, to people who have underground information. And he came back early with his report.” She affected a quiet complacence, as if seeking news of her father’s whereabouts was a trivial detail of everyday life. “And what did he learn?” asked Peter, sitting down by the writing table with his back to the window. He was calmer now, resolved to play his part of utter ignorance of the truth about Kirsakoff. “The last word that has come to Chita is that—Kirsakoff is in Harbin.” She looked straight at Peter to gauge the effect of her story upon him. “In Manchuria,” he said, without surprise. “In that case, we should go to Harbin. Could you and your father get away to Harbin with me?”