She raised a tiny silver object suspended around her neck by a silver chain.
"Don't you know that it's my duty to my host to whistle for the keepers to come and take you before the magistrate?"
"Of course. Whistle away."
"But I'm not going to—at least, not yet. I want to talk to you first.
I'm coming in—with your permission."
"Charmed!" he said with a gaiety he was far from feeling, and opened the door with a fine flourish. "It's always easy to be hospitable at somebody else's expense," he said.
She entered without ceremony, gun in hand, her eyes, under lowered lids, shifting indolently, yet missing nothing—the pack on the floor, the tumbled couch, and Markham's familiar pipe.
"Quite handsome, I'd say. The Count always had an eye for the picturesque."
She made the round of the lower floor, carelessly observant of its arrangement, while Markham followed her, his ears straining for the sounds of Hermia's escape.
"Are your friends coming here?" he asked.
Olga poked the muzzle of her gun into a cupboard. "Not unless I whistle for them, Monsieur," she said slowly. "They're below me to the left. We have rendezvous at the lower lodge. Lucky, isn't it?"