sy; 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 half the night. Had he any relations or
friends? That she did not know, she had never seen or heard of
any, but she did not wonder at that--they did well to keep
clear of him, a bad man, who had broken more hearts than his
wife's, she would answer for it. For the rest, she knew little
about him, she added, with a sudden fit of professional
reticence, induced by the recollection that it might be as
well not to gossip too much about the affairs of her
_clientele;_ he came and went, paid his bill regularly enough,
generally seemed to have money at his command, and of course
it was not for her to inquire how he got it, though she might
have her suspicions. What was to become of his little girl in
case of his death? Madame had never thought of that: