“Why do you laugh?”
“Oh, because—Hark!”
The two of them ran to the bedroom door.
“Olga! Olga!” And then a guttural level jumble of sounds.
Kitty's quick brain reached out for a similitude—water rushing over ragged boulders.
“Olga!” she whispered. “He is a Russian!”
“There are Serbian Olgas and Bulgarian Olgas and Rumanian Olgas. Probably his sweetheart.”
“The poor thing!”
“Sounds like Russian,” added Cutty, his conscience pricking him. But he welcomed that “Olga.” It would naturally put a damper on Kitty's interest. “There's Harrison with the nurse.”
Quarter of an hour later the patient was taken down to the ambulance and conveyed to the private hospital. Cutty had no way of ascertaining whether they were followed; but he hoped they would be. The knowledge that their victim was in a near-by hospital would naturally serve to relax the enemy vigilance temporarily; and this would permit safely and secretly the second leg of the journey—that to his own apartment.