“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.
“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.”