Once more he understood that he was to get some meaning from her words. He noticed that a sudden change had come over her—there was a softer look in her eyes, as if she had abandoned all thought of using any artifice with him and was on the verge of giving him her confidence. Her eyes seemed to burn with a kindlier light for him. Peter was right about Katerin. She was at that time strongly tempted to tell him who she was. She watched him with a quivering expectancy, waiting for him to whisper to her that he was the man who had been sent by her friends to find her and Michael Kirsakoff. But when he said nothing and observed her without any sign that he had comprehended her meaning in words or looks, she felt a fear that perhaps she had gone too far in her attempts to enlighten him as to her identity. “Do you live here—in Chita?” he asked. It was in his mind that this was a good time to test her as to whether she might have any knowledge of Kirsakoff. He realized that if she had her home in Chita, she was of the class who would know the former Governor. Katerin’s lips moved as if to reply, but she did not speak. She had recovered her caution. She wanted to evade the answer, for once more she had built up a mental resistance against him and was beginning to be afraid. She realized that if she pretended to be a stranger in the city she would defeat his purpose if he had really come from friends, by misleading him. If she told him that she was a stranger in the city he would be thrown entirely off the track and never suspect that she was Katerin Stephanovna Kirsakoff. “I have been in Chita long enough to know it well,” she said. “And I have been here long enough to be willing to go, too.” “Then you have friends here,” he said. “You must know many of the people—the wealthy people, that is.” “They are almost all gone—or dead. Most of them are in Vladivostok, or in hiding here. But we cannot get away now—it is impossible for us to leave by ourselves. We wait for our friends—_to send us help_.” That should be plain enough for him, she thought. “How would they send help?” he asked. “You mean that they would send soldiers?” “Perhaps they would send a man who would be able to take us away from the city—they might even send a—foreigner. A man Zorogoff would not dare to hinder from going with us.” Peter now had full understanding of her searching looks, her broad hints about help, and her surprise at finding that he spoke perfect Russian though supposed to be an American. Also, he saw her reason for coming to him as a samovar girl—unless she was really a spy delving into his object for being in the city. “I am sorry I have been so stupid,” he said. “You must think I am a fool—but I am not a messenger sent by your friends.”