us go and look out of the window again; perhaps we shall see
him just coming in."

They went to the end of the corridor accordingly; but no one
was to be seen, except the man who had just left M. Linders'
apartment walking briskly across the moonlight space below,
the great doors of the _porte-cochere_ closing after him with a
clang that resounded through the silent courtyard. Graham had
nothing further to say in the way of consolation; he could
think of no more possible contingencies to suggest, and,
indeed, it was useless to go on reasoning concerning perfectly
unknown conditions. Madelon, however, seemed a little
reassured by his confident tone, and he changed the subject by
asking her whether the gentleman who had just left was a
friend of hers.

"Who? Monsieur Legros?" Madelon answered. "No, I don't know
him much, and I do not like him at all; he comes sometimes to
play with papa."

"To play with him?"

"Yes, at cards, you know--at _ecarte_, or _piquet_, or one of those
games."

"And it was with him that your father had an appointment?"

"Yes," said Madelon; "he came last night, and papa told him to
be here again this evening at ten, and that is why I cannot
think why he does not come."

She turned again disconsolately to the window, and there was
another pause. Madelon relapsed into the silence habitual to
her with strangers, and Graham hardly knew how to continue the
conversation; yet he was unwilling to leave the child alone
with her anxiety at that late hour: and besides, he was
haunted by vague, floating memories that refused to shape
themselves definitely. Some time--somewhere--he had heard or
seen, or dreamt of some one--he could not catch the connecting
link which would serve to unite some remote, foregone
experience with his present sensations.

He moved a little away from the window, and in so doing his
foot struck against the book which Madelon had dropped on
first seeing him, and he stooped to pick it up. It was a
German story-book, full of bright coloured pictures; so he saw
as he opened it and turned over the leaves, scarcely thinking
of what he did, when his eye was suddenly arrested by the
inscription on the fly-leaf. The book had been given to
Madelon only the year before by a German lady she had met at
Chaudfontaine, and there was her name, "Madeleine Linders,"
that of the donor, the date, and below, "Hotel des Bains,
Chaudfontaine." It was a revelation to Horace. Of course he
un