“Do you know where he lives?” asked Peter, who was taking care to conceal his eagerness to get all possible details. He asked his questions with an assumed indifference.
“No, I cannot say. But I am sure my father knows. But what good would it do you to know?”
“Not any,” said Peter. “Yet I would like to find this Kirsakoff. Where is your father?”
“Here—in the hotel,” said Katerin.
“Perhaps it would be as well if I were to ask the Ataman about Kirsakoff,” said Peter. “Yet I would like to talk with your father, if he would see me.”
“By all means talk with my father,” said Katerin hastily. “It would be fatal for you to admit to the Ataman that you had ever heard of Kirsakoff’s ever being here, or concerned in the government of the Ataman. That is a secret they will conceal at any cost—and that is why we are in danger, my father and I.”
“But Zorogoff would not know how I had learned about Kirsakoff. And I might plead ignorance—I might even test the Ataman by asking him if he knew where Kirsakoff might be found.”
“I have put my life in your hands,” said Katerin earnestly. “If you mention Kirsakoff to the Ataman, he will know that you have been talking with us here in the hotel. And Zorogoff’s soldiers will come for us at once.”
She rose, rather agitated by Peter’s idea of talking with the Ataman. The effect upon her was exactly what Peter sought—for he wanted to talk with her father. If she feared that Peter would go to the Ataman instead for information, she would make it possible for Peter to learn more of Kirsakoff and his haunts.
“I do not intend to increase your danger,” said Peter, also rising. “Have no fear on that score. But I am bound to find Kirsakoff in some way—unless your father can help me I shall have to make inquiries in my own way.”