"You—and Hermia!" This from Olga, who had recovered her speech with difficulty. "What does it mean, John?"
But John Markham thrust his hands deep into his pockets and turned his back.
"What does it mean?" she repeated distinctly. "You and Hermia—here? I hardly understand—" But Markham, looking out of the end window, shrugged his shoulders, refusing to reply. He was fuddled with misery, bewildered by the turn of events which were quite beyond his management.
Another long pause, during which he was conscious that Hermia, her dignity in jeopardy, was descending the ladder and now faced their visitor, a fugitive smile upon her lips, pale but quite composed.
"Hello, Olga," he heard her say.
The Countess Tcherny's gaze traveled over her from head to heel, the gaze of one who looks at a person one has never seen before. She looked long but replied not; then her chin was lowered quickly the fraction of an inch, after which she raised the gun, broke it and threw out the shell from the still smoking barrel.
"Stupid of me, wasn't it?" she said coolly. "I forgot it was loaded."
"It's lucky you didn't hurt yourself," said Hermia.
"Isn't it? How dreadful, Hermia, if I had peppered the trap door!"
"I rather think you did," said Hermia. She walked across to the fireplace with a queer laugh. "Well! You've brought down the game. Now whistle for your dogs!"