as I to do then? I sat me down in the
shadow of the portico and waited once more. After a terribly long time
I could see that he was not moving up and down. I peeped cautiously,
and he seemed to be departing. Then I came out stealthy as a cat, and
found that he was going away, and the reason--"

"The reason?"

"Oui, mademoiselle; the light in your room had disappeared."

"Disappeared!"

"Oui, mademoiselle. Then I bethought me there might yet be a chance. I
came up to the front entrance and tried the door. It was not locked.
My heart leaped for joy. I blessed the carelessness of the servants,
and stole cautiously in. I came to this room. All was dark; but the
coals there showed me your figure in the chair. I could not mistake
the graceful outlines of mademoiselle. I entered very quietly,
relighted your lamp--some little breeze must have flared it out while
you slept. I was looking at you, and wondering what you would say if
you knew how nearly crazy with love you had driven that stately,
handsome Monsieur Percy, when you awoke."

It is needless to say that, long before Celine had finished her
recital, her mistress was in the best of humors. Indeed, Celine's
volubly uttered, intensely flattering, highly probable recital, had an
exhilarating effect upon her; so much so, that the lady found sleep
now quite impossible. So poor Celine was doomed, after all, to build
the new braids and puffs into a wonderful edifice upon the head of
Miss Arthur, and to repeat over and again the sweet story of "how he
loved her."

The "wee sma'" hours were beginning to lengthen once more when Celine
was released from duty, and went wearily up to her room; wearily, yet
with undimmed eyes, and the mischievous dimples still lurking about
the corners of her mouth.

She muttered: "Bah! it is better than sleep, after all; if only the
others were as easily duped as she!"

By which words, a listener might have been led to suppose that Celine
Leroque had been practising deception upon some confiding individual.

CHAPTER XVII.

GATHERING CLUES.

Claire had been absent all the morning, had gone to make some call; at
least she had said to Olive, at breakfast, "I think I will take the
ponies, Olive, and drive into the city this morning. It is nice out of
doors, and I have made no calls since I came here."

Olive Girard sat alone in her cosy drawing-room. She had been reading,
but the book was somehow not in tune with her mind or mood