A mental picture arose of a secret temple in the shadow of the distant Himalayas.  Was it credible that this quiet country house, so typical of rural England, harboured that same dread secret which he had believed to be locked away in those Indian hills?  Could he believe that the dark and death-dealing power which he had seen at work in the East was now centred here, within telephone-call of London?

The fate of Sir Charles Abingdon and of Paul Harley would seem to indicate that such was the case.  Beyond doubt, the document of which Rama Dass had spoken was some paper in the possession of the late Sir Charles.  Much that had been mysterious was cleared up.  He wondered why it had not occurred to him from the first that Sir Charles’s inquiry, which he had mentioned to Paul Harley, respecting Fire-Tongue, had been due to the fact that the surgeon had seen the secret mark upon his arm after the accident in the Haymarket.  He remembered distinctly that his sleeve had been torn upon that occasion.  He could not imagine, however, what had directed the attention of the organization to Sir Charles, and for what reason his death had been decided upon.

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.