His eyes searched her keenly. Her head drooped to her fingers, which pressed her temples nervously. If he had not known her so well he would have almost been ready to believe her contrition genuine. But in a moment she straightened.

"You advise me not to hope, then?" she murmured with a laugh.

Doubt fled. She was mocking him. Her very presence mocked him. The rafters saw his discomfiture, though the attic heard not. Was Hermia gone? He fidgeted his feet, listening. Olga was really intolerable.

"Oh, what's the use?" he muttered. "The humor's out of the thing."

A change, subtle and undefined, came over his visitor's expression.

She rose imperturbably and walked about, fingering things, reaching at last the book case next to the corridor, and slowly abstracted a volume, turning its leaves idly, and facing the door, spoke with perilous distinctness.

"It is charming here, _mon ami_," she said gaily. "If I had sent for you, things could not have been more agreeably arranged. It is _so_ long since we've met. And I've missed you dreadfully. It mustn't happen again, _mon cher_." She lowered the book and leaned against the door jamb dreamily. "You shall remain here _en vagabond_," she went on, "and I will visit you, bringing you crumbs from the rich men's table, which we will enjoy _? deux_. It will remind us of those days at Compigne, those long days of sunshine and delight--of the moonlit Oise, and the tiny _auberge_ at La Croix among the beeches, which even the motorists hadn't yet discovered. But even La Croix is not more secluded than this. This lodge is seldom used. No one shall know--not even Madeleine de Cahors."

Markham listened dumbly at first in incomprehension and then in amazement. He had never been in Compigne with Olga or anyone else.

And La Croix--! What was she about? Her purpose came to him slowly, and with the revelation, anger.

He covered the distance between them in a step.

"Silence," he whispered, aware of the trap door about their very ears.

She smiled up into his face sweetly.

"I suppose you'll be denying next that you were ever in Compigne--"

"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 sc.r.a.ping 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.

"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.

"h.e.l.lo, 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 sh.e.l.l 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!"

Olga's face was quite serious.

"I'm sure that I don't in the least know what you're talking about.

Your presence is surprising enough--"

Hermia looked defiance.

"Is it? Why? You've outwitted me. I'm simply acknowledging the fact.

John Markham and I have been traveling together for a week--as you perceive--_en vagabond_. We like it. It's most amusing. Indiscreet?

Perhaps. If so, I'll take the consequences. Can I say more?"

Olga's smile came slowly--with difficulty. The bravado of fear? Or of indifference? She had never really measured weapons with Hermia.

"I'm the last person in the world whose censure you need fear, my dear," she said suavely.

"I don't fear it," said Hermia promptly. "I'm quite sure I'd rather have had you fin me out than any one I know."

Bravado again.

"I'm glad, darling," Olga purred. "It's sweet of you to say so."

"I don't mean that I wanted to be discovered. If I had I shouldn't have fled from the _roulotte_ of the Fabiani family yesterday when you were looking for me. You traced us from Alenon, of course--"

"I? Why should I follow you?"

"I haven't the slightest idea--unless your conversation a moment ago with John Markham explains it."

"You heard--that!"

"Oh, yes,--didn't you want me to? I'm not deaf. But you needn't be at all worried about it." She paused and brushed the dust of the loft from her coat sleeve. "You know, Olga, I don't believe it--_any_ of it."

Olga smiled sagely, but Markham, who all this while had been standing like a figure of wax, now showed signs of animation.

"It was all a joke, of course, Hermia," he began, moving forward.

"Olga knows as well as I do that--"

But Hermia had waved him into silence.