anonymous letter from Paris. He wrote off at once to Madame
Lavaux, the only person with whom he could imagine Madeleine
to have taken refuge; but, as we know, Madame Lavaux had
neither seen her nor heard anything about her. He had then, in
his perplexity, written to her old friends in Florence,
thinking it just possible they might be able to give him some
information, but with no more success. He received an answer
from the American artist, in which he mentioned the death of
the old violinist, lamented Madelon's disappearance, but, as
may be supposed, gave no news of her.

Graham was greatly annoyed and perplexed. What could have
become of the child? To whom could she have gone? She had had
no friend but himself when he had last parted from her, and
she could hardly, he imagined, have made any outside the
convent walls. And why had she run away? Had she been unkindly
treated? Why had she not written to him if she were in
trouble? These and a hundred other questions he asked himself,
reproaching himself the while for not having kept up some kind
of communication with her, or with Mademoiselle Linders. He
had a real interest in, and affection for, the child, whom he
had befriended in her hour of need; and held himself besides
in some sort responsible for her welfare, after the promise he
had made to her father on his death-bed. What was he to do if
all traces of her were indeed lost? This very day he had again
been over to Liege, had paid a second visit to the convent,
and had made inquiries of every person who probably or
improbably might have had news of her, but with no more result
than before; and now, as he walked up and down the Place
Royale, he was debating in his own mind whether he could take
any further steps in the matter, or whether it must not rather
now be left to time and chance to discover her hiding-place.

A shower of rain came on, dispersing the few people who had
cared to linger in the open air in this raw, chilly evening;
and Horace, leaving the Place, went up the street, which, with
its lights and shops, looked cheerfully by comparison, and,
like the rest of the world, turned into the Redoute, more than
usually full, for it was the race-week, and numbers of
strangers had come into the town. The ball-room, where dancing
was going on, was crowded; and Graham, who, attracted by the
music, had looked in, had soon had enough of the heat and
noise. In a few minutes he had made his way into the gambl