“Not at all, I have seen nothing of him this evening.  But this is perhaps a trick that Monsieur le Papa is playing me; he fears to give me his little revenge of which he spoke, and wishes to keep out of my way.  What do you say to that, Mademoiselle?”

“I am quite sure it is not so,” answered Madelon, with a little defiant air.  “I heard papa say it was quite by chance he had lost all that money to you, for you did not understand the first principles of the game.”

“Ah! he said that?  But it is lucky for us other poor devils that we have these chances sometimes!  You will at least admit that, Mademoiselle?”

“Papa plays better than anyone,” says Madelon, retreating from argument to the safer ground of assertion, and still standing in the middle of the room in her defiant attitude, with her hands clasped behind her.

“Without a doubt, Mademoiselle; but then, as he says, we also have our chances.  Well, I cannot wait for mine this evening, for it is nearly midnight, and I have another appointment.  These gentlemen will wonder what has become of me.  Mademoiselle, I have the honour to wish you good evening.”

He made a profound bow, and left the room.

Madelon gave a great sigh, and then came out into the passage again where Horace was standing.  He had been a somewhat bewildered spectator of this queer little interview, but the child evidently saw nothing out of the way in it, for she made no remark upon it, and only said rather piteously,

“I cannot imagine where papa can be; I do wish he would come back.”

“Does he often stay out so late as this?” asked Graham.

“Oh! yes, often, but not when he says he is coming in early, or when he is expecting anyone.”

“And do you know where he is gone?”

“No, not at all.  He said he was going to dine with some gentlemen, but I don’t know where!  Oh! do you think anything—­ anything can have happened?” cried Madelon, her hidden anxiety suddenly finding utterance.

“Indeed I do not,” answered Graham, in his kindest voice.  “His friends have persuaded him to stay late, I have no doubt; you must not be so uneasy—­these things often happen, you know.  Let 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.