By this time Angela was thankful for the cloak she had left in the car.  It was nearly twelve; and the eight miles which the Bright Angel would gaily have gobbled up in the same number of minutes had she been able to use her eyes, took an hour to negotiate.  Like a wounded lioness the car crawled along the dark road, illumined only by a fitful spot of yellow light; and a deep-toned clock somewhere was striking one as she drew up before the door of the hotel.

Most of the windows had gone to sleep, but a few near the front entrance were twinkling wakefully, and the door flew open in response to the call of the motor.  A servant of the hotel came out, but behind the liveried man appeared the tall figure of John Falconer, with a woman at his side.

“We’ve been anxious about you,” Falconer said, coming forward.

That “we” was suggestive; and Angela’s fancy sprang to a happy ending for the marred romance.  As she entered the hall, dazzled by the lights, her first glance was for the woman who stood beside Falconer, smiling though a little shy.  It did not need Falconer’s introduction to tell that this was Mademoiselle Dobieski; and if the singer had lost her youth in Siberia, Paso Robles, or the magic medicine of love, had given it back.  Her pale face, lit by immense dark eyes, was radiant, and though she leaned lightly on a stick, it seemed that this was a mere concession to a doctor’s order, or a habit not quite forgotten.

“This is the lady I told you of,” Falconer said to Angela, when he had heard the story of the adventure.  “I told her about you, too, and she would sit up to see you.  So would your maid, of course, who has been in a great state of anxiety—­and even the cat was depressed.  Mademoiselle Dobieski has been trying to console your poor Irish girl.”

“I could not bear her to be unhappy,” said the singer, in a voice of a curiously thrilling quality.  “I am so happy myself!  This is the best day of my life.  I don’t want it to end.”

“The doctor has told her she will be cured,” Falconer explained.  “You can guess whether it has been a happy day for me!  And she has promised to be my wife.  It was in the Mission church of San Miguel, bless him!”

“Then it was you who forgot the key in the church door!” exclaimed Angela.  “I felt it was, somehow.  And no wonder you forgot!” She threw a smiling glance at Nick.

Nick said nothing, but he too blessed San Miguel.  He knew nothing about the bodily ailments which brought people to sulphur springs, but he thought that no torture of the body could be worse than jealousy; and of that pain San Miguel had in a moment cured him.

He blessed also the owl which had rustled and made Angela want him near her.

“I believe I’ll catch it, and have it tamed at my place,” he said to himself.  “I’ll give it a good time all the rest of its life.”

And next morning early, while Angela slept, he motored out again to the Mission, found the Padre, caught the owl which was young and dazed, brought it to the hotel, and hired a boy to take it by train to Bakersfield.