“Here is Ilya Andreitch, master,” said Wassili, and Ilya blinked at the candle on Michael’s table, bowed, and stood nervously fingering his cap.
“You bring us news, Ilya Andreitch,” began Michael when Katerin had closed the door. Michael’s thin, weak voice took on some of the relief he felt at knowing that help was at hand after months of danger in a world which had apparently gone mad, and he spoke somewhat in his old manner of authority.
“I?” asked Ilya. “Yes, Excellence. I bring good news to your house—and to the mistress.” He bowed again, this time to Katerin, who had gone to her father.
“Wassili says an American officer has sent you,” prompted Katerin, seeing that Ilya was perturbed and might be stricken dumb by fear of being before the former Governor.
“He is at the Dauria, mistress,” said Ilya faintly, and turned to Wassili as if he expected the moujik to take up the story now, and go on with it.
“At the Dauria Hotel,” agreed Katerin. “And you have brought a message from him to us?”
Ilya looked round the room wildly, seeking some escape from the eyes of Michael which bore upon him steadily.
“Have you a message from the American?” asked Katerin gently.
“I?” Ilya looked at her in amazement, and turned toward the door. Then he bowed again to Michael and Katerin to cover his confusion.
“What did the American say?” urged Katerin, and Wassili gave utterance to a faint snort of disgust and prodded Ilya in the back.