The men who lived in the hotel were mostly officers who were attached to the Ataman’s army, judging from those Peter had seen about the halls. The women were a flashy lot—women who had drifted up the railroad from Vladivostok or Harbin, and women of the sort that has the best of everything in times of famine and disorder. They were the parasites who seem to thrive best in times of disaster, and who get the most out of life when there are no laws of restraint. When they have acquired some amount of treasure, they are robbed and abandoned.
Katerin was at the door in response to the signal by bell with amazing promptitude. She entered without knocking, and closed the door behind her softly. She stood for a minute, a vague shadow in the gloom outside the zone of the shaded lamp.
Peter rose and moved toward her. “Thank you for coming,” he said in a low voice in keeping with her secretive entrance. “Have you persuaded your father to tell me what I wish to know? Will he help me in my quest?”
“If you still wish it,” she replied. “Please! Take the shade from the lamp—the darkness is not pleasant.”
Peter caught a note of melancholy in her voice. She seemed to be discouraged, and his own hopeful attitude was somewhat chilled.
“Has anything gone wrong?” he asked.
“No, not unless it is wrong for us to involve you in the same dangers which face us. My father appears reluctant to put you into a situation the full danger of which may not be apparent to you, a stranger.”
Peter laughed merrily to cover the sudden fear which he had felt that she might recede from her promise to help him find Michael Kirsakoff.
“I have no fear,” he said. “There may be danger, but I am glad to help you. I shall attempt to find Kirsakoff in any event—and may well run into more danger than if your father should tell me how to go about the job. So when it comes to that, my danger is only increased if you do not help.”
“Perhaps you are right,” she said.