The Samovar Girl

by Frederick Ferdinand Moore

Shimilin entered as Peter stepped aside. The Cossack looked at Michael, who had retreated to the low writing table under the window, clutching the blanket about him.

“Have you business of the Ataman with me?” asked Peter.

“No, not with you,” said Shimilin. “I did not call upon you, but I thank you for your politeness.”

Peter considered what he should do next. He had no wish to see Michael wrested from his control in this fashion, and he had no doubt but that Shimilin had come for Michael. It was quite likely that Katerin had been seized when she went down to arrange matters with Slipitsky. Peter frowned at the thought that Michael would escape him, even though the old general met death at the hands of the Ataman’s soldiers. It came to him that the limit of his vengeance now would be but to surrender Michael and taunt him with the fact that the Cossacks—his own Cossacks—could now deal with a Kirsakoff as they had dealt in the old days with a Gorekin. But Peter hoped to delay with Shimilin. It might be possible to get the Cossack away for a time, when Peter would have things in his own hands again, if only for a brief space. He began to see that his hand was being forced—if he was to kill Michael he would have to do it in Chita—probably on the spot, and that in the next few minutes.

“Could you tell me why you have come to my room?” asked Peter.

“Oh, yes,” said Shimilin easily, as he faced Michael. “I have come to arrest this old man.”

“Arrest him? For what?” asked Peter, feigning a mild surprise. Shimilin seemed so casual, so light-hearted, so jaunty that he appeared to regard the whole matter as in the nature of a joke. He smiled good-naturedly at Michael.

Shimilin lifted his shoulders inside the sheepskin coat, put out both hands with the palms upward, and jerked his head. “It is a business of the Ataman. You speak Russian well. Are you a Russian?”

“Yes,” said Peter.

“Of course,” said Shimilin. “Only a Russian could speak so. Have you called upon the Ataman Zorogoff? What do you think of—our Ataman?” He regarded Peter with questioning eyes.