“No,” answers Madelon, shaking her head, “we don’t know anyone in Paris, except some gentlemen who come to play with papa—­ like Monsieur Legros, you know—­only some are nicer than he is; but I don’t know the names of them all.  At Wiesbaden I knew a Russian princess, who used to ask me to go and see her at the hotel—­oh, yes, and a German Countess, and a great many people that we met at the tables and at the balls, but I daresay I shall never see them again; we meet so many people, you know.”

“And you have no other friends?”

“Oh, yes,” said Madelon, her eyes shining suddenly, “there was the American artist, who lived in our house in Florence, and the old German who taught me to sing and play the violin; I was very fond of him, he was so good—­so good.”

“Who were they?” asked Graham.

Madelon explained, not in the least understanding the purport of all these questions, but her explanation did not help Graham much.  In truth, he was revolving some anxious thoughts.  In accepting the charge of this sick man, he felt that he had incurred a certain responsibility, not only towards M. Linders, but towards his little girl, and any relations or friends that he might have.  It was on Madelon’s account above all that he felt uneasy; what was to become of her if her father died—­and Graham had little doubt that he was dying—­all friendless and alone in the world as she would apparently be?  Had any arrangements for the future been made, any provision left for her?  What was to become of this poor child, clinging so closely to her father, and so dependent upon him that she seemed to have no thoughts nor ideas apart from him?

Graham had been questioning Madame Lavaux as to what she knew of M. Linders and his life, and had gained much information on some points, though very little on others.  Madame Lavaux had readily related the history of Madelon’s birth and Madame Linders’ death.  It was a story she was fond of telling; it had been a little romance in the ordinary routine of hotel life, and one in which, when she had duly set forth M. Linders’ heartlessness and her own exertions, she felt that she must shine in an exceptionally favourable light; and indeed it was so pitiful a tale the her hearers could not but share the indignation and compassion she felt and expressed when she spoke of cette pauvre dame, who so young and so beautiful had been left alone to give birth to her infant, and, still alone, to die four months later.  But when Graham endeavoured to get any facts bearing directly upon the present emergency, he found Madame Lavaux less well-informed.  M. Linders had come to her hotel year after year, she said, and she had always taken him in, on the little girl’s account (who was a chere petite, though troublesome sometimes, as children would be); otherwise she would have been sorry to have such a mauvais sujet about the house, in and out at all hours, and queer-looking men sitting up with him