SLIPITSKY returned to the Kirsakoffs in an hour, bringing with him a small samovar, some bread, and a cold partridge. In his pocket he carried a bottle of wine for Michael. “You will need something to warm and hearten you, Excellence, for there is not much warmth,” he said when Katerin had let him in. Michael was sitting on the bed, his boots off and his eyes blinking, for he had been sleeping, being worn out with waiting up for the return of Wassili the night before, the preparation for the flight, and the journey afoot into the city. “Ah, that is good!” said Michael. “I am famished, though I have had a good sleep—without bad dreams, for now we are out of danger, old friend.” Slipitsky turned and looked at him in surprise. “Out of danger! Do not think my hotel is so safe, Excellence. Zorogoff may ask for all my rooms any day for more of his officers—and when he takes the notion he searches the place. So you are still in danger—unless you have a plan for escape from the city. Surely you and the daughter must have some scheme for getting out by an underground!” “Oh, true!” said Michael, taking a glass of wine from Katerin’s hand. “That is why we have come—there is an American here?” “Friends have sent an American officer to us,” explained Katerin to the Jew. “Is he not here in the house?” “So-o!” whispered Slipitsky, betraying his amazement. “It is you he has come for? And that is why so little has been seen of him! Two nights he has been under the roof and he has not stirred out, but sits all day smoking by a samovar! I have seen him in the hall once—a big fellow, maybe a colonel! And he has paid a week in advance, too, but I could not read what he wrote in the book for Dazo. So he got word to you that he was here—well, that is good for you.” “We have heard that he was in the city looking for us,” said Michael. “But we are not sure—we must look into the matter. But I doubt if Zorogoff will dare interfere with an American—or us if the American has come to help us.” Slipitsky sat down and pulled his beard thoughtfully while Katerin busied herself with brewing the tea at the samovar. “It is hard for us to tell what that devil of an Ataman will do with anybody,” said Slipitsky. “But an American—that is different. So your friends have done this for you! And the American has sent word to you that he is here waiting for you, eh?” “We heard it through Ilya Andreitch, a peasant, who came to our house last night with the news,” explained Katerin. “But when Ilya was sent here with a message last night he was killed. But the American did not tell Ilya to go to us—Ilya got news from friends of his.” Slipitsky opened his eyes at that, and rolled them thoughtfully. “Then the American did not send the word to you by Ilya?” He was puzzled—and troubled again. “And Ilya was shot? That is bad.” “We shall have to be very cautious about it,” put in Michael, “for I am afraid of a trap.”