“So you are waiting for help to come to you, eh?” asked Peter. He pitied her—yet he was still reserving his judgment about her. It was possible that her story was only to mislead him as to her real motive in bringing the samovar to his room. Katerin smiled sadly. “Yes, I wait for a chance to get away from the city. We have sent letters to friends in Harbin and in Vladivostok—weeks ago, months ago. We are not sure that they got the letters, for we have had no answer. Yet we hope some one will come to help us. Perhaps—_they will send some one to us_,” she added with special significance and looked at him again with intent eyes. Peter was puzzled now. He saw that she was trying to make him understand something without putting it into words—it might be that she was seeking to learn for some other person what his object was in coming to Chita. Or he had been mistaken for some other person who was expected. “Why do you not go to Vladivostok yourself?” he asked, evading saying anything that bore upon what he was thinking. “The trains are running. Is it lack of money that prevents you from going?” “No, not money,” she said, and then with a glance at the door, she lowered her voice to almost a whisper. “Do you not know about the Ataman Zorogoff who is in this city?” “Yes, I have heard of him. I hope to know more about him. The Americans want to help the people. Perhaps you will tell me about Zorogoff.” Peter thought that was enough for him to say about Zorogoff. He did not care to commit himself on the subject of the Ataman—did not wish to betray any antagonism toward the Mongol ruler. The Ataman was a man to be wary about, and Peter had no intention of taking this girl into his confidence as to where he might stand in any matter which involved Zorogoff. Katerin suddenly clenched her hands. “Do the Americans think they can help us if they remain in Vladivostok?” she demanded with passion. Then she lapsed back into her easy manner as suddenly as she had blurted out her feelings, and turned as if she would go. “Please wait!” he commanded. “This is something that it would be well for me to know.” Then dropping his voice as she paused and looked back at him over her shoulder, he went on, “You mean that the people are oppressed by the Ataman Zorogoff?” She returned and stood before the samovar, as if settling in her mind what her answer should be. “I think I had better not talk about the Ataman,” she said finally. “He is not a safe subject for discussion by a poor and helpless samovar girl.” “Tell me,” he urged, bending forward and speaking confidentially, “are you in danger from the Ataman?” She gave him that quick look again, as if she were not quite sure that he could be trusted. “It is better for me not to talk of the Ataman—but I am a samovar girl here for my own safety—till some one comes for me—_and my father_.”