from Paris.  He wrote off at once to Madame Lavaux, the only person with whom he could imagine Madeleine to have taken refuge; but, as we know, Madame Lavaux had neither seen her nor heard anything about her.  He had then, in his perplexity, written to her old friends in Florence, thinking it just possible they might be able to give him some information, but with no more success.  He received an answer from the American artist, in which he mentioned the death of the old violinist, lamented Madelon’s disappearance, but, as may be supposed, gave no news of her.

Graham was greatly annoyed and perplexed.  What could have become of the child?  To whom could she have gone?  She had had no friend but himself when he had last parted from her, and she could hardly, he imagined, have made any outside the convent walls.  And why had she run away?  Had she been unkindly treated?  Why had she not written to him if she were in trouble?  These and a hundred other questions he asked himself, reproaching himself the while for not having kept up some kind of communication with her, or with Mademoiselle Linders.  He had a real interest in, and affection for, the child, whom he had befriended in her hour of need; and held himself besides in some sort responsible for her welfare, after the promise he had made to her father on his death-bed.  What was he to do if all traces of her were indeed lost?  This very day he had again been over to Liege, had paid a second visit to the convent, and had made inquiries of every person who probably or improbably might have had news of her, but with no more result than before; and now, as he walked up and down the Place Royale, he was debating in his own mind whether he could take any further steps in the matter, or whether it must not rather now be left to time and chance to discover her hiding-place.

A shower of rain came on, dispersing the few people who had cared to linger in the open air in this raw, chilly evening; and Horace, leaving the Place, went up the street, which, with its lights and shops, looked cheerfully by comparison, and, like the rest of the world, turned into the Redoute, more than usually full, for it was the race-week, and numbers of strangers had come into the town.  The ball-room, where dancing was going on, was crowded; and Graham, who, attracted by the music, had looked in, had soon had enough of the heat and noise.  In a few minutes he had made his way into the gambling salon, and had joined one of the silent groups standing round the tables.

Meanwhile, Madelon, once more absorbed in the game, is meditating her grand coup.  Hitherto she has been playing cautiously, her capital accumulating gradually, but surely, till she has quite a heap of gold and notes before her.  It is already a fortune in her eyes, and she thinks, if she could only double this all at once, then indeed would the great task be accomplished; she might go then, she might write to Monsieur Horace, she would see him again—­ah!