“General Kirsakoff.” Her eyes held his as she spoke the name. She saw his eyelids lift swiftly, and heard him draw in his breath slowly. His hands began to close into fists, and the strong fingers sank into the palms while the knuckles grew white as the skin was drawn tautly across. He leaned back in his chair, and the little muscles of his jaws stood out under the skin of his cheeks as he set his teeth together. And there crept into his face a look of exultation, of infinite satisfaction—she saw him thrilled with the joy of the hunter who at last gets sight of his prey.
Peter turned away from Katerin and glanced at the window, but without seeing it. His face softened into a smile, and he got up from his chair, crossed the room, came back, and sat down again before her.
“Tell me more about this Kirsakoff,” he urged. “What is his name?”
“Michael Alexandrovitch,” she said. “He is a man of noble family—of old boyar stock. He ruled here many years before the revolution.” Katerin pretended not to notice the smile which was still playing at the corners of Peter’s mouth—she looked at him casually as he sat down again, but busied herself making squares and circles on the tablecloth with her finger.
“Is Kirsakoff in the city—now?” he asked.
“I presume so. He spends most of his time here, but he keeps well hidden.”
“Do you know where he may be found? Where he lives?”
“It could be easily learned. What would be the good of knowing?”
“It does not matter,” he said. “Still, it might be of use to know. Do you think you could easily find out whether he is in the city or not? How would you go about it?”
“My father was an exile here,” said Katerin. “He was transported ten years ago, and I followed from Moscow and lived in the Street of the Dames. My father was a political—and he knows too much now about Kirsakoff for our safety.”