Clearly it was time to end the interview. Doctor Vaughan must be ready for the return train, which flew cityward soon, and Celine Leroque must not be too long absent. So there were a few words more about their plans, a few courteous sentences addressed to Hagar by Doctor Vaughan, and then they separated. The next day two men were at work,--following like sleuth hounds the trail on which they were put, unravelling slowly, slowly, the webs of the past that had been spun by the two men who were to be hunted down. And now came a time of comparative dullness at Oakley. Even eventful lives do not always pace onward to the inspiring clang of trumpet and drum. There is the bivouac and the time of rest, even though sleeping upon their arms, for all the hosts that were ever marshalled to battle. [Illustration: "Well, it's a strange business and a difficult."--page 261.] Celine Leroque found life rather more dreary than she had expected during these days of inaction. After all, it is easier to be brave than to be patient. So, in spite of her courage and her self-sacrifice, she was restless and unhappy. And she was not alone in her restlessness. It is curious to note what diverse causes produce the same effects. Cora Arthur was restless, very restless. The fruit of her labor was in her hands, but it was vapid, tasteless, unsatisfying. What _her_ soul clamored for, was the opera, the contact of kindred spirits, the rush and whirl, the smoke and champagne, and giddiness of the city; the card-won gold, and painted folly that made the be-all and end-all of life to such as she. She did not lose sight of the usefulness she trusted to find in Celine Leroque, however. During these days of _ennui_ and quietude, the two came to a very good understanding; not all at once, and not at all definite. Only, by degrees, Cora became convinced that Celine Leroque cherished a very laudable contempt for her would-be-girlish mistress, and that she was becoming rather weary in her service. Once, indeed, the girl had said, as if unable to restrain herself, and while dressing Mrs. Cora's yellow hair--a task which she professed to delight in: "Ah! madame, if only it was _you_ who were my mistress! It is a pleasure to dress a beautiful mistress, but to be constantly at war against nature, to make an old one young--faugh! it is labor." And Cora had been much amused and had held out a suggestion that, in case of any rupture between mistress and maid, the latter should apply to her.