Peter bowed. “I am Lieutenant Gordon of the American army,” he said with cold formality, and returned the Ataman’s angry stare.
“I have come to hear you oppose my will,” growled Zorogoff, a wicked twist to the corner of his lips, and venom in his eyes.
“And what is your will, sir?” demanded Peter, putting enough deference into his words and manner to prevent Zorogoff from having any complaint on the ground of lack of civility or respect.
“My officers report that you have been in my city several days. You come here as an American and ignore me and my government.”
“I can assure you that you will not be ignored by the American army, sir,” said Peter.
“Do you, representing the American army, dare tell my officers what they may not do?”
“I requested your officer not to arrest General Kirsakoff and his daughter in my room. They came here to talk with me, and till I have finished talking with them, your officers must not interfere, sir.”
Zorogoff’s breathing became audible to Peter, and he saw the flat nostrils of the Ataman twitch, and growing anger flashing in his eyes. But he did not take his eyes from Peter’s, nor was there the slightest change of expression in the Mongol’s immobile face after that lifting of the nostrils. Behind the Ataman stood Shimilin, smiling sneeringly over the shoulder of his chief, in an obvious attempt to break through Peter’s armor of stolid patience.
“My officers must not interfere!” echoed the Ataman. “Is it that I take orders from the Americans?”
“No, it is not an order, but——”