"O Philidor, we're lost—"
But he caught her by the shoulder and hurried her out into the hall.
"Up the ladder quickly! It's our only chance. There's a window in the gable and a trellis. I saw it a while ago. You must go—that way when I get her inside. We'll meet at Hauterire. Leave the rest to me."
And while she went up he returned to the living room, removed the most obvious traces of Hermia's presence, and, as the trap door was slid down into its place, dropped into the nearest armchair, feigning slumber. He heard Olga's footsteps as she prowled around the house and deluded himself for a moment with the thought that she had gone on, when suddenly he saw her poking at the shutters, which she finally pressed open with the butt end of her shotgun, filling the room with sunlight and revealing the prostrate Markham, who started up in dismay which needed little simulation.
"Good morning, Philidor," said she quite pleasantly.
"Olga!"
"Did you sleep well? What a sluggard you are! Behold the ant—learn her ways and do likewise."
He rose, and through the window offered her his hand. But she waved him off with the point of her gun.
"Not so fast, my young friend!" she cried, her eyes meanwhile swiftly searching the room. "You're a poacher. Will you surrender?"
"By all means—at discretion—if you'll please not keep pointing that plaguey thing—"