And as for Peter, he was beginning to abandon his theory that she was a spy. There was probably some other reason for her being a servant. He was chiefly concerned now with making her a friend, for the thought crossed his mind that this girl might be able to give him information about Kirsakoff, though the subject of the former Governor would have to be approached with great caution. “The other girl could not come this morning,” she said. “But I shall not always bring your samovar—my work is on the other floors.” “I hope you will, though it is too bad that you have to work as a samovar girl.” This was direct angling for enlightenment as to why she was serving as a samovar girl—he wanted to give her a chance to set herself right with him. If she did happen to be a spy, it would make it easy for her to improvise a history for herself and so find it easy to talk with him and deflect his suspicions—if she thought he was suspicious of her true status. He knew it was quite possible that she was a refugee who had turned “worker” for protection against the wrath of the masses toward the wealthy. “People once rich are now poor,” said Katerin, and looked at him significantly. She was hoping that he might take this hint, and by a closer scrutiny, recognize her as Kirsakoff’s daughter. In that case, he would make it known to her that he had come from friends to find her and her father. But, as a matter of fact, Peter had forgotten that Kirsakoff had a daughter—except for a little girl. “And it is necessary now that you work?” he asked. “It is most necessary. I must have food and shelter by some method.” “You are working here—as a samovar girl—for food and shelter? Is it as bad as that with you?” “Why not I as well as others?” she asked simply, with a shrug of her shoulders. “And others have fared worse. What better could I do while I wait—for friends—to send help to me—and my people?” Once more she gave him that steady gaze which she thought would add meaning to her words, but though his face was serious, not a glimmer of understanding did she see in his eyes. She thought it strange that if he had been sent to rescue her father and herself he could not grasp the meaning behind her words and her glances. Surely, he would have been shown a picture of her, or have a description of her from friends which would cause him to recognize the daughter of Michael Kirsakoff easily. There were not so many young women of her age, education, and appearance in Chita, she knew. She turned her eyes from his, and colored again, embarrassed by having looked so long and steadily into the eyes of a stranger. She drew him a glass full of hot water from the samovar for a fresh glass of tea and by this means covered her sense of having appeared too bold with a strange man.