The warm, glowing, picturesque Italian life had, as we know, forcibly seized her imagination, her eyes shone with delight as she recalled it, and, almost involuntarily in describing it, she made use of the soft words and phrases of the Italian tongue, which with the ready talent she possessed for languages, she had caught up, and spoke fluently.

“Where did you go when you left Florence?” asked Graham.

“We came north across the Alps and through Switzerland to Baden, and then we stayed a little while at Homburg, and then we were at Wiesbaden for six weeks:  do you know Wiesbaden, Monsieur Horace?”

“I was there once for two days,” answered Graham; “were you happy there too?”

“Ah yes, I was always happy with papa, but I like Wiesbaden very much.  It is so pretty and gay; do you remember the Kursaal gardens?  I used to walk there and listen to the band, and sometimes we sat and had coffee at the little round tables, and looked at all the people passing.  And then in the evening there were the balls; last summer I used sometimes to go to them with the Russian Princess.”

“And who was the Russian Princess?” Graham inquired.

“She was a Russian lady papa knew there, and she was very kind to me; I used to walk with her, and sit by her at the tables, and prick her cards for her; she said I brought her luck.”

“Prick her cards!” cried Graham.

“Yes—­don’t you know? at rouge-et-noir,” says Madelon in explanation, “one has little cards to prick, and then one remembers how many times each colour has won; otherwise one would not know at all what to do.”

“I see,” said Graham; “and so your Russian Princess played at rouge-et-noir—­did she win much?”

“Yes, a great deal,” cried Madelon, spreading out her hands, “she always had chance and was very rich; she wore such beautiful toilettes at the balls; she knew a great many gentlemen, and when I went with her they all danced with me.”

And so on, da capo; it was always the same story, and Graham soon found that he had reached the limits of Madelon’s experiences in that direction.  As a last resource, he wrote to her American and German friends at Florence, the most respectable apparently of M. Linders’ many doubtful acquaintance, and indeed the only ones with whose address Madelon could furnish him.  From the old German he received a prompt reply.  The American was absent from Florence, he said on a visit to his own country, which was to be regretted, as it was he who had been M. Linders’ friend, and who could have given more information concerning him than it was in his power to do.  Indeed, for himself, he knew little about him; he had spent the last winter at Florence, but his society and associates were not such as he, the German, affected.  M. Linders had once been an artist, he believed; he had spent much of his time in painting, but he knew nothing of his early life.  That he was a notorious gambler he was well aware, and had heard more than one story about him that certainly placed his character in no very favourable light; more than this he could not say.  Of Madelon he spoke with the warmest affection, and there was a little note enclosed to her in Graham’s letter, which she placed, and carefully preserved, we may be sure, amongst her most precious treasures.