"I'll go."
And go she did. The footman in green livery hesitated for a moment, but the title on the visiting card was quite sufficient. He bowed the countess into the reception room and went in search of his distinguished mistress.
The Princess Parlova was a handsome woman verging upon middle age. She was a patrician; Olga's keen eye discerned that instantly. She came into the reception room with that dignified serenity which would have impressed any one as genuine. She held the card in her fingers and smiled inquiringly toward her guest.
"I confess," she began, "that I recall neither your face nor your name. I am sorry. Where have I had the honor of meeting you before?"
"You have never met me before, your highness," answered Olga sweetly.
"You came on a charity errand, then?"
"That depends, your highness. Will you be so good as to glance at this?" Olga asked, holding out her palm upon which the talisman lay.
The princess shrank back, paling.
"Where did you get that?" she panted.
"From the head," was the answer.