aps? Papa will be very glad to see you again. Ah, how I
wish he would come!" she added, all her anxieties suddenly
revived.

"Do you always sit up for him when he is so late?" said
Graham. "Surely it would be wiser for you to go to bed."

"That is just what I said to Mademoiselle an hour ago," said a
kind, cheery voice behind them, belonging to Madame Lavaux,
the mistress of the hotel. "Of what use, I say, is it for her
to sit up waiting for her papa, who will not come any the
sooner for that."

"Ah! Madame, I must wait," said Madelon. "Papa will come
soon."

"But, _ma chere petite_--" began Madame.

"I must wait," repeated Madelon, piteously; "I always sit up
for him."

Graham thought he could not do better than leave her in the
hands of the landlady, and with a friendly good-night, and a
promise to come and see her the next day, he went back to his
own room. In a few minutes, he heard Madame pass along the
corridor and go upstairs to bed; but, though tired enough
himself after a day of Paris sight-seeing, he could not make
up his mind to do the same, when, on opening his door, he saw
Madelon standing where he had left her. He could not get rid
of the thought of this lonely little watcher at the end of the
passage, and taking up a book he began to read. From time to
time he looked out, but there was no change in the posture of
affairs; through the half-open door opposite he could see the
lights burning in the still empty room, and the small figure
remained motionless at the moonlit window. All sounds of life
and movement were hushed in the hotel, all the clocks had long
since struck midnight, and he was considering whether he
should not go and speak to Madelon again, when he heard a
faint cry, and then a rush of light feet along the passage and
down the staircase.

"So he has come at last," thought Graham, laying down his book
with a sense of relief, not sorry to have his self-imposed
vigil brought to an end. He still sat listening, however; his
door was ajar, and he thought he should hear the father and
child come up together. There was a moment's silence as the
sound of the footsteps died away, and then succeeded a quick
opening and shutting of doors, the tread of hasty feet, a
confusion of many voices speaking at once, a sudden clamour
and stir breaking in on the stillness, and then suddenly
subdued and hushed, as if to suit the prevailing quiet of the
sleeping house.

"Something must have happened,"