“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 understood it all now.  Here was the clue to his confused recollections, to the strange little scene he had just witnessed.  Another moonlit courtyard came to his remembrance, a gleaming, rushing river, a background of shadowy hills, and a little coy, wilful, chattering girl, with curly hair and great brown eyes—­those very eyes that had been perplexing him not ten minutes ago.

“I think you and I have met before,” he said to Madelon, smiling; “but I daresay you don’t remember much about it, though I recollect you very well now.”

“We have met before?” said Madelon.  “Pardon, Monsieur, but I do not very well recall it.”

“At Chaudfontaine, five years ago, when you were quite a little girl.  You are Madeleine Linders, are you not?”

“Yes, I am Madeleine Linders,” she answered.  “I have often been at Chaudfontaine; did you stay at the hotel there?”

“Only for one night,” said Graham; “but you and I had a long talk together in the courtyard that evening.  Let me see, how can I recall it to you?  Ah! there was a little green and gold fish——­”

“Was that you?” cried Madelon, her face suddenly brightening with a flush of intelligence and pleasure.  “I have it still, that little fish.  Ah! how glad I am now that I did not give it away!  That gentleman was so kind to me, I shall never forget him.  But it was you!” she added, with a sudden recognition of Graham’s identity.