“Something must have happened,” thought Graham.  “That poor child!—­perhaps her father has, after all, met with some accident!” He left his room and ran quickly downstairs.  The confused murmur of voices grew louder as he approached the hall, and on turning the last angle of the staircase, he at once perceived the cause of the disturbance.

A little group was collected in the middle of the hall, the night porter, one or two of the servants of the hotel, and some men in blouses, all gathered round a tall prostrate man, half lying on a bench placed under the centre lamp, half supported by two men, who had apparently just carried him in.  He was quite insensible, his head had fallen forward on his breast, and was bound with a handkerchief that had been tied round to staunch the blood from a wound in his forehead; his neckcloth was unfastened and his coat thrown back to give him more air.  The little crowd was increasing every moment, as the news spread through the house; the porte-cochere stood wide open, and outside in the street a fiacre could be seen, standing in the moonlight.

“A doctor must be fetched at once,” someone was saying, just as Horace came up and recognized, not without difficulty, in the pale disfigured form before him, the handsome fair-haired M. Linders he had met at Chaudfontaine five years before.

“I am a doctor,” he said, coming forward.  “Perhaps I can be of some use here.”

No one seemed to notice him at first—­a lad had already started in quest of a surgeon, and jumping into the empty fiacre that had brought the injured man to the hotel, was driving off; but Madelon turned round at the sound of Graham’s voice, and looked up in his face with a new expression of hope in her eyes, instead of the blank, bewildered despair with which she had been gazing at her father and the strange faces around.  To the poor child it seemed as if she had lived through an unknown space of terror and misery during the few minutes that had elapsed since from the passage window she had seen the fiacre stop, and, with the presentiment of evil which had been haunting her during these last hours of suspense, intensified to conviction, had flown downstairs only to meet her father’s insensible form as he was carried in.  She was kneeling now by his side, and was chafing one of his cold hands between her poor little trembling fingers; but when she saw Graham standing at the edge of the circle she got up, and went to him.

“Will you come to papa?” she said, taking him by both hands and drawing him forward.

“Don’t be frightened,” said Horace, in his kind, cheerful voice, trying to encourage her, for her face and lips were colourless, and she was trembling as with a sudden chill.  He put one arm round her, and came forward to look at M. Linders.

“Allow me,” he said; and this time his voice commanded attention, and imposed a moment’s silence on the confusion of tongues.  “I am a doctor, and can perhaps be of some use; but I must beg of you not to press round in this way.  Can anyone tell me what has happened?” he added, as he bent over M. Linders.