He fell back on the pillow gasping, panting, almost sobbing, all pretence and semblance of cynicism and indifference gone in the miserable moment of weakness and despair.  Was it for this, then, that he had taught his child to love him—­that he had watched and guarded and cherished her—­that he should place her now in the hands of his enemy, and that she should learn to hate his memory when he was dead?  Ah! he was dying, and from the grave there would be no return—­no hand could be stretched out from thence to claim her—­no voice make itself heard to appeal to her old love for him, to remind her of happy bygone days when she had believed in him, and to bid her to be faithful to him still.  Those others would be able to work their will then, while he lay silent for evermore, and his little one would too surely learn what manner of father she had had, perhaps—­who knows?—­learn to rejoice in the day that had set her free from his influence.

Graham very likely understood something of what was passing in M. Linders’ mind, revealed, as it had been, by those few broken words, for he said in a kind voice,

“I think you may surely trust to your child’s love for you, M. Linders, for she seems to have found all her happiness in it hitherto, and it is so strong and true that I do not think it will be easily shaken, nor can I fancy anyone will be cruel enough to attempt it.”  And then, seeing how little capable M. Linders seemed at that moment of judging wisely, he went on to urge the necessity of Madelon’s being sent to her aunt as her natural guardian, representing the impossibility of leaving her without money or friends in the midst of strangers.

“There is a little money,” said M. Linders, “a few thousand francs—­I do not know how much exactly; you will find it in that desk.  It would start her for the stage; she has talent—­ she would rise.  S——­ heard her sing once; if he were here now, we might arrange——­”

He was rambling off in a low broken voice, hardly conscious, perhaps, of what he was saying.  Graham once more interposed.

“No, no,” he said, “you must not think of it.  Let her go to her aunt.  Don’t be uneasy about her getting there safely; I will take charge of her.”

“You will?” said M. Linders, fixing his dim eyes on Graham, and with some resumption of his old manner.  “Pardon, Monsieur, but who are you, that you take such an interest in my affairs?”

“Anyone must take an interest in your little girl,” said Graham warmly, and in the kind, frank voice that somehow always carried with it the conviction of his sincerity and good faith, “and I am truly glad that the chance that brought me to this hotel has put it in my power to be of use to you and to her.  For the rest, my name is Graham, and I am an army surgeon.  I don’t suppose you recollect the circumstance, Monsieur, but I very well remember meeting you at Chaudfontaine some years ago.”

“No, I don’t remember,” said M. Linders faintly, “but I think I may trust you.  You will see that Madelon reaches Liege safely?”