"I suppose you'll be denying next that you were ever in Compiègne—"
"I do."
"Or that you would have married me last summer if I—"
"Olga!"
"If I hadn't been wise enough—"
"You're mad!"
She drew back form him, her eyes wide, but she had no reply. He took one step toward her and then stopped, impotent before her frailness, his glance wavering toward the door into the loft which mutely stared at him. Hermia would have gone by now—she must have gone. The way had been clear for twenty minutes. He looked away, and then, since there seemed nothing else to do, he laughed. But Olga didn't seem to hear him. She was fingering the shotgun which lay beside her on the table.
"Mad? Perhaps I am," she said with slow distinctness. "Though you're the last one in the world who should tell me so."
She picked up the weapon and, before he had really guessed what she was about, calmly discharged one of its barrels out of the window.
The noise was deafening and the silence which followed freighted with importance. A scraping of feet overhead, a rattle of loose hinges, and a frightened face at the aperture. Olga Tcherny turned, took a step or two into the doorway, glanced upward and then let her astonished gaze fall on Markham, who was peering up, imploring mutely.