another pause. Madelon relapsed into the silence habitual to
her with strangers, and Graham hardly knew how to continue the
conversation; yet he was unwilling to leave the child alone
with her anxiety at that late hour: and besides, he was
haunted by vague, floating memories that refused to shape
themselves definitely. Some time--somewhere--he had heard or
seen, or dreamt of some one--he could not catch the connecting
link which would serve to unite some remote, foregone
experience with his present sensations.

He moved a little away from the window, and in so doing his
foot struck against the book which Madelon had dropped on
first seeing him, and he stooped to pick it up. It was a
German story-book, full of bright coloured pictures; so he saw
as he opened it and turned over the leaves, scarcely thinking
of what he did, when his eye was suddenly arrested by the
inscription on the fly-leaf. The book had been given to
Madelon only the year before by a German lady she had met at
Chaudfontaine, and there was her name, "Madeleine Linders,"
that of the donor, the date, and below, "Hôtel des Bains,
Chaudfontaine." It was a revelation to Horace. Of course he
understood it all now. Here was the clue to his confused
recollections, to the strange little scene he had just
witnessed. Another moonlit courtyard came to his remembrance,
a gleaming, rushing river, a background of shadowy hills, and
a little coy, wilful, chattering girl, with curly hair and
great brown eyes--those very eyes that had been perplexing him
not ten minutes ago.

"I think you and I have met before," he said to Madelon,