She did not go to bed, however; that would have been the last thing she would have thought of doing; for, Graham’s last words notwithstanding, she had a notion that in a few minutes she would be called to come and watch by her father, as she had often done in the old days at Florence; so she only put down her candle on the table, and curled herself up in a big arm-chair; and in five minutes, in spite of her resolution to keep wide awake till she should be summoned, she was sound asleep.

Low voices were consulting together in the next room, people coming in and out; the French doctor who had been sent for arriving; cautious footsteps, and soft movements about the injured man.  But Madelon heard none of them, she slept soundly on, and only awoke at last to see her candle go out with a splutter, and the grey light of dawn creeping chilly into the room.  She awoke with a start and shiver of cold, and sat up wondering to find herself there; then a rush of recollections came over her of last night, or her father’s accident, and she jumped up quickly, straightening herself, stretching her little stiff limbs, and pushing back her tumbled hair with both hands from the sleepy eyes that were hardly fairly open even now.

Her first movement was towards the door between the two bedrooms, but she checked herself, remembering that Monsieur le Docteur had told her she must not go in there till she was called.  There was another door to her room leading into the corridor, and just at that moment she heard two people stop outside of it, talking together in subdued tones.

“Then I leave the case altogether in your hands,” says a strange man’s voice.  “I am absolutely obliged to leave Paris for B——­ by the first train this morning, and cannot be back till to-morrow night; so, as you say, Monsieur, you are in Paris for some time——­”

“For the next few days, at any rate,” answered the other; and Madelon recognized Graham’s voice and English accent, “long enough to see this case through to the end, I am afraid.”

“If anything can be done, you will do it, I am sure,” interrupted the other with warmth.  “You must permit me to say, Monsieur, as an old man may say to a young confrere, that it is seldom one meets with so much coolness and skill in such a very critical case.  Nothing else could have saved——­”

The voices died away as the speakers walked towards the end of the passage.  Madelon had hardly taken in the sense of the few sentences she had heard; she was only anxious now to see Graham and ask if she might go to her father, so she opened her door softly and crept into the passage, meeting Horace as he returned towards the sick-room after seeing the French doctor off.  He looked down on the little figure all pale and ruffled in the cold grey light.

“Why, I thought you were asleep,” he said.  “Would you like to see your father now?  You may come in, but you must be very quiet, for he is dozing.”