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 c