He rolled his cigar from corner to corner of his mouth, staring reflectively with lack-lustre eyes at the silent house before him. In the moonlight it made a peaceful picture enough. A cautious tour of the place revealed a lighted window upon the first floor. Standing in the shadow of an old apple tree, Nicol Brinn watched the blind of this window minute after minute, patiently waiting for a shadow to appear upon it; and at last his patience was rewarded. A shadow appeared--the shadow of a woman! Nicol Brinn dropped his cigar at his feet and set his heel upon it. A bitter-sweet memory which had been with him for seven years arose again in his mind. There is a kind of mountain owl in certain parts of northern India which possesses a curiously high, plaintive note. He wondered if he could remember and reproduce that note. He made the attempt, repeating the cry three times. At the third repetition the light in the first floor window went out. He heard the sound of the window being gently opened. Then a voice--a voice which held the sweetest music in the world for the man who listened below--spoke softly: “Nicol!” “Naida!” he called. “Come down to me. You must. Don’t answer. I will wait here.” “Promise you will let me return!” He hesitated. “Promise!” “I promise.” CHAPTER XXIX. THE CATASTROPHE The first faint spears of morning creeping through the trees which surrounded Hillside revealed two figures upon a rustic bench in the little orchard adjoining the house. A pair incongruous enough--this dark-eyed Eastern woman, wrapped in a long fur cloak, and Nicol Brinn, gaunt, unshaven, fantastic in his evening dress, revealed now in the gray morning light. “Look!” whispered Naida. “It is the dawn. I must go!” Nicol Brinn clenched his teeth tightly but made no reply. “You promised,” she said, and although her voice was very tender she strove to detach his arm, which was locked about her shoulders. He nodded grimly. “I’ll keep my word. I made a contract with hell with my eyes open, and I’ll stick to it.” He stood up suddenly. “Go back, Naida!” he said. “Go back! You have my promise, now, and I’m helpless. But at last I see a way, and I’m going to take it.” “What do you mean?” she cried, standing up and clutching his arm. “Never mind.” His tone was cool again. “Just go back.” “You would not--” she began. “I never broke my word in my life, and even now I’m not going to begin. While you live I stay silent.” In the growing light Naida looked about her affrightedly. Then, throwing her arms impulsively around Brinn, she kissed him--a caress that was passionate but sexless; rather the kiss of a mother who parts with a beloved son than that which a woman bestows upon the man she loves; an act of renunciation. He uttered a low cry and would have seized her in his arms but, lithely evading him, she turned, stifling a sob, and darted away through the trees toward the house.