“You mean that you will go and tell him who you are?” demanded Michael, his horror intensifying at the idea the more he realized that Katerin meant what she was saying.
“He may know who I am when he sees me,” said Katerin.
“It must not be done, my daughter,” said Michael, his agitation only growing. “We can trust no one, especially not a strange man who comes from whom we know not. This is no time to be rash, and I cannot let you put yourself into danger.”
“If this American has come seeking Michael Kirsakoff and his daughter, will he not have descriptions of us? And if he is not seeking us, how is he to know who I am? I shall not tell him my name, you may be assured of that, unless he knows me—or unless he tells me that he seeks us. So what can the danger be, my father?”
“There is some truth in what you say,” admitted Michael, as he resumed eating the partridge. “If he knows you, he knows, and that would mean he has come from friends. But if he does not recognize you, and he does not tell you that he is seeking us, what have you learned? And how are you to go talking with a man you do not know? I tell you you must not take risks on what Ilya has said!”
“That is wisdom,” assented the Jew, nodding his head slowly. “You must always test the ice before you walk upon it, else you will find yourself in the river with the fish.”
“Tell me, where is the room of the American?” asked Katerin.
“The other way—down at the end of the hall with windows that look up the Sofistkaya, mistress.”
“Can you put us in rooms near him?”
“Yes, mistress, I could. When Dazo goes out later in the day, it can be accomplished secretly. Is it that you intend to watch the American? You will see little of him if he keeps to his room as he has.”