The room was cold and he dressed rapidly. He rang at once for a samovar, and began shaving. He had made up his mind to make definite efforts this day to trace Michael Kirsakoff, for he was now rested from his journey on the train. He thought of Rimsky. It might be wise to go in and see the graybeard again, and pick up once more the conversation and the gossip. In time Rimsky would be willing to talk more freely, Peter was sure. The samovar girl was slower than usual in coming. Peter rang again—three times, and with as much insistence as he could put into the pressure of the button. He finished shaving, and had a mind to go out to the dreary dining room and see what could be done about getting some hot tea there. It was apparent that the stupid and slatternly girl who had been serving him could not be depended upon for prompt service—and he was beginning to suffer from the cold. When he had decided that he should wait no longer, there came a knock at the door. He opened it—and stared! For instead of the peasant girl who had been serving him since his arrival at the hotel, there was a tall young woman with a beautiful face—a patrician face, the face of a woman of noble lineage! And he was startled, though he was too well trained in his business to reveal his amazement to her. Still, he paused for an instant, not sure that she had not mistaken the room and had not come in response to his ringing. He looked at her over the top of the big brass samovar which she bore on a tray before her, and her keenly intelligent blue eyes met his with a self-possessed and frank gaze. He half expected her to mutter some apology and go away. Instead, she stood gazing at him, waiting for him to make way for her, and the trace of a smile came into her eyes, as if she felt like saying to him, “Here is your samovar! How do you expect to get it if you stand all morning in the doorway?” Peter bowed slightly, and said good-morning with an effort to be casual. In the second which he had stood stock still looking at her, a suspicion had crossed his mind—this well-born woman had not taken the place of his unkempt serving girl without good reason. It was quite possible, and quite in the Russian style, to send an attractive woman to serve him and spy upon him. Very well! He decided that he should play a little at that game himself. “Good-morning, master,” Katerin replied modestly, and came through the door when Peter stepped aside to admit her. She smiled as a matter of duty, and went about her business of placing the samovar and the breakfast things on the table. Peter went before the big mirror on the wall between the windows and pretended to be combing his hair. He wished to conceal from the new samovar girl his close observation of her, and he could watch her image in the mirror without appearing to pay any special attention to her.