The old general knew that Peter lusted for his life, and this knowledge must in itself fill Kirsakoff with terror. Did not Kirsakoff live in dread of a look, a word, an intonation of the voice, which would betray him to Peter? And Peter knew that he had the power to precipitate the dreaded catastrophe for Michael at any instant. All Peter waited for now was the moment which would intensify the terror for Michael—that moment, perhaps, when Michael would consider himself safest. It might come at the instant when Michael would be ready to slip away from Peter in Harbin, exulting in the thought that he was about to escape from the man who sought to slay him. Safe at last! And then Peter could smile, and instead of saying, “Good-by, my friend,” could say instead, “Now, Michael Alexandrovitch, you die!” And so utterly Russian such a moment would be! And how fitting, thought Peter. Was not Michael Kirsakoff living in a fool’s paradise and thinking that he could use his enemy to save his life from the Ataman? When he saw it from this angle, Peter was glad that he knew the old man was Michael. Now he could build Michael’s hopes, only to shatter them at the end. Once again Peter was master of himself and of the situation. He would play the covert game with the Kirsakoffs—and Michael could not escape. Harbin would be better than Chita after all, for it offered a better chance for Peter to cover his tracks. He had come to this decision when he heard the rattle of boots on the other side of the door which led into Michael’s room. Then the door opened slowly, cautiously, and presently Michael, the blanket over his shoulders and clutching the loose ends of the covering to his breast, looked in. The old man was crouched forward and he was visibly trembling. Peter thought at first that Michael had come sneaking in during the absence of Katerin below, to attack him. But he saw at once that Michael was alarmed—he stood hesitating in the door, looking back over his shoulder, listening. He had a blanket over his shoulders, and his hair stood up stiffly on the back of his head behind the bandages about his face, like the crest of an angry cockatoo. Peter stood still. He half expected that Michael had come to the attack—that beneath the blanket Michael had a weapon. And there was no longer any doubt that the old man was Kirsakoff. Peter recognized him for the Governor at once, though the years had changed so much and the bandages which covered his cheeks hid his predominant features. The nose was still strong and arrogant, the black eyes now deeply set with age, the white mustaches which had once been black, though sparse, changed his appearance but little. This was the moment for which Peter had waited so long—but he knew at once that it was not the moment to strike. He wanted more time to deal with Michael, and the old man was worried about something which seemed to threaten from the hall. “What is wrong?” asked Peter.