The first of the three to move was Michael. He slumped down into a chair, and, lifting a warning hand to Katerin, said weakly, “He has found us out!” Her father’s voice seemed to release Katerin from the grip of her terror, and she began to move forward toward Peter, with slow, even steps, her eyes upon the dagger in Peter’s hand. There was no wariness about her, yet she had a quiet deliberation, as if she knew that it would be safer to make no sudden movement and so startle Peter into resistance. Katerin approached Peter, and reaching for the dagger, put her hand upon its blade and drew it out of his fingers with the same gentle motion that a mother might use in taking a dangerous object from the hand of a child. And Peter relinquished the weapon, not so much in surrender as in a state of mind which was willing to forego for the present anything or any action in exchange for time to consider a new phase of the situation. Katerin recognized the dagger, more by the quick sidewise glance she gave her father than by looking at the ivory hilt which stuck up between her thumb. She suspected that her father had drawn the weapon against Peter when he had discovered her father’s identity, and that Peter had disarmed him. But she knew that just what had happened during her absence from the room did not matter now—the danger lay before her. She mistrusted Peter’s temporary mood, and sought for an angle by which she might draw from him his attitude, or deflect him from any murderous intent. She knew that her father’s life hung in the balance—and her own—while Peter stood there silently staring at her, grim and forbidding and gathering impetus for whatever form his next impulse would take. “I trusted you!” she said quietly, and after she had uttered the words her mouth remained half open and her breath came gustily, like the breath of a runner who is spent at the end of an effort. She had been holding her breath since she had screamed in the doorway. She looked into his eyes. Peter’s lids flickered. His eyes were half closed, and still shot with red in the tiny blood-engorged veins at the sides. He looked at her dreamily, questioningly, and she thought with something of insolent defiance. Peter did not answer, but he moved his head slightly and looked past her at Michael, lips compressed, and the lids flickering. “Peter Petrovitch—I love my father.” Her voice was low, entreating, consoling, and carried an infinite desire that he understand her suffering. “This is the end for us!” piped up Michael shrilly. “To the dead it does not matter how death has come—we shall take the poison!” Michael lifted one hand before him, and with the other tore open a seam in the cuff of his shirt. Between his thumb and finger appeared a small white pellet. Katerin was upon him instantly and took away the pellet.