leman was
Horace Graham's _quondam_ fellow-traveller, the Countess's old
admirer, and now her husband.

They were talking as they came together down the courtyard,
and Madelon caught the last words of their conversation.

"Adieu, _mon ami_," cried the lady, as they approached the gate;
"I shall rejoin you this afternoon at Liege."

"And by the earliest train possible, I beg of you," answered
the other. "I may find it necessary to go on to Brussels this
evening."

"By the earliest train possible, _mon ami_. Adieu, then,--_au
revoir_."

"_Au revoir, ma cherie_," answered the gentleman, turning back
to the hotel, but pausing before he had taken a dozen steps.

_"Ma cherie_, you will not forget my business at Madame
Bertrand's?"

"But no, _mon ami_, it shall be attended to without fail."

"_Ma cherie_----"

"_Mon ami_----"

"You must hasten, or you will miss the train."

"I go, I go," cried the Countess, waving her parasol in token
of farewell, and hurrying out of the gateway. These last words
aroused Madelon also. In hearing strange voices talking what
seemed some familiar, half-forgotten tongue, she had almost
forgotten the train; but she started up now from where she had
been half standing, half leaning, and followed the Countess
across the bridge into the railway station. Indeed she had
only just time to take her ticket, before the train for Spa
came rushing up with slackening speed into the station. There
were few passengers either coming or going at this early hour,
but Madelon's heart gave a great jump as she saw two black-
robed figures get out of one of the carriages and come towards
her. In another moment she saw they were Soeurs de Charite,
with a dress quite different from that worn by the nuns; but
the imaginary alarm suggested very real causes of fear, which
somehow had almost slipped from her mind since the first hours
of her escape from the convent. In her new, glad sense of
freedom, she had quite forgotten that the hour had long since
arrived when her flight must most certainly be discovered, and
that there were, after all, still only six miles of road
between her and her old life; and it was with quite a newly
awakened dread that even now unfriendly eyes might be watching
her from some one of the carriage-windows, that she jumped
hastily into the nearest compartment she could find. It was
not empty, however, for the Countess, who had preceded her
across the bridge had already taken her p