“Holy Saints!” he whispered after a minute. “You would do that, Katerin Stephanovna? That is something worthy of the best of the Czar’s police! Ah, but you will be playing with fire—you will need your wits at every instant.”
“True, I shall need my wits,” said Katerin. “I am willing to play with fire, and match my wits against the stranger. And when I learn what I want—then we shall need our wits all the more.”
“I am old and my head is addled,” said Michael. “Sometimes I think I must be going mad—here I am, who was governor, hiding in my own city, helpless and with——”
There came a cautious knock at the door. Katerin went to it, and heard Slipitsky’s voice outside. She let him in—and with him was Wassili!
“You stupid one!” exclaimed Michael at sight of the old moujik. “Why have you come here? The Ataman will——”
Slipitsky made frantic signals for quiet, and when he had shot the bolt behind him, threw up his hands in an attitude of resignation.
Wassili was wrapped to the eyes against the cold, and stood dumbly waiting till he should be asked what he had come for.
“This is the last of us!” whispered the Jew. “We shall all be killed now! Zorogoff has been to your house, Excellence—and he told Wassili where you were—here in my house—the floor and the room! So poor Wassili has run away with the warning that you are discovered.”
Michael’s head sank upon his breast, as if he now submitted to fate.
“We must go at once!” said Katerin. “We cannot let you draw the wrath of the Ataman because you are hiding us, our friend! We shall prepare to go at once!”