“You say it, but how do you know it?” asked Katerin. She was beginning to feel that her father was right—that there were no grounds for their hopes other than a desire of this crafty moujik and some of his fellows to squeeze money from her father. But she concealed her disappointment.
“Rimsky told me, mistress, that is how I know,” said Ilya with a bow.
“And it was Rimsky who sent you to this house?” said Michael. “Now, the truth!”
Ilya stared at the floor and tried to think. In a way, it was true that Rimsky had sent him to the house, and yet it was not true in just the way that Michael was saying. The moujik’s brain was not equal to a quick and accurate reply when folk of education twisted things up so.
“I? No, master. Rimsky does not know I came to this house. How could he send me here when he has no knowledge of where the Excellence lives? I told no one because I am very secret, master.”
“Then the American did not send you?” snapped Michael.
Ilya turned to Katerin. “There is an American, mistress,” he insisted.
“You know nothing of an American but what this fool Rimsky told you?” insisted Michael. “Come! You have not seen the American?”
“How could I see him, master?” asked Ilya.
Michael gave a snort of disgust and leaned back in his chair. “It is nothing,” he said sadly. “Send Ilya away,” with a look at Wassili.