“My father was in business in Moscow. I was born and grew up there,” lied Peter glibly, as he took a cigarette. He had no intention of taking Lutoff into confidence about his early life. He considered that none of the Cossack’s business, and the personal prying a trifle impertinent.
“Are American soldiers coming to Chita?” pressed Lutoff. It was obvious now that he sought information for the Ataman.
“Oh, yes,” said Peter easily. “I understand a battalion will be coming up the line. That is something I intend to take up with the Ataman—how many barracks are available in this vicinity.”
Lutoff gave this consideration for several minutes, but made no comment. Then he looked over his shoulder toward the orchestra to make sure that no waiters were within hearing.
“As a friend, I wish to tell you something,” he said in a low tone.
“Thank you,” said Peter, but to all intents he was indifferent and smoked his cigarette with complacency.
“While I belong to the Ataman’s staff, I am not speaking officially,” said Lutoff. “It is merely as one friend to another. You understand my attitude, of course.”
“Of course. Have no hesitation in speaking.”
“Then what I wish to say to you is that if I were you, I would not trust civilians who live in this hotel.” Lutoff looked squarely at Peter, as if to gauge the effect of the advice on him.
“Civilians!” exclaimed Peter. “Why, I did not think of that. I supposed that nearly everybody in the hotel was in the Ataman’s service.”