“Ay, did the Governor know?” echoed Michael.
“Know!” cried Peter. “What would he have cared if he did know? He had just ordered us both to prison for nothing! And did he care enough to investigate the case during the three months I was inside a black cell—to give me my freedom? No! He forgot all about it and me, even if he did know what had happened? Does he care now what the fate of you and your daughter may be? I tell you, sir, I must find Michael Kirsakoff! And you must be the one who puts me on the right road!”
“True, you must find him,” said Katerin. “Now we know that you have good reason for wanting him.”
“Thank you,” said Peter fervently. “I knew that when you saw my story as I could tell it, you would realize that above all things, I must find Kirsakoff.”
“What was the name of your father?” asked Michael.
“Gorekin—Peter Pavlovitch—a bootmaker.”
“Gorekin!” gasped Michael, his head snapping back in his amazement. “Gorekin!”
“Have you heard of him?” asked Peter, with a quick look at the old general.
“I thought for a moment I knew the name,” said Michael. “But if you say he was a bootmaker, it must have been another. No, not if he was a bootmaker—and this man I knew less than ten years ago.”
Michael looked at Wassili, and put a hand upon the table beside him, keeping the other under the blanket. He began to drum with his fingers, deep in reflection. No word was spoken for several minutes. Peter could hear Wassili breathing behind the chair.