“It can be arranged that you talk with my father,” she said, moving toward the door. “Is it really necessary that you find Kirsakoff?”
“Not necessary, perhaps,” he said. “But I strongly desire to find him.”
“I—I would like to know the reason.”
“I will tell you that when you tell me where he may be found,” said Peter with a smile.
She stood for a time looking into his face. He saw that she was pale, and far more excited than her restrained manner revealed to the casual glance.
“I will ask my father if he will see you,” she said presently. “He is very old and ill—he has been shot by sentries—a bullet through both his cheeks, though he is nearly recovered now from that. He is suspicious of all strangers, and you must be patient with him.”
“I promise to be patient,” said Peter. “If you will arrange it for me——”
“Ring for the samovar at five,” she said.
Peter held out his hand quickly, as if there were a compact between them which must be affirmed. She gave him her hand, and he bowed and lifted it to his lips.
“Vashka,” he whispered, “do you wish to leave this city?”