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 character in no very favourable light; more than this he
could not say. Of Madelon he spoke with the warmest affection,
and there was a little note enclosed to her in Graham's
letter, which she placed, and carefully preserved, we may be
sure, amongst her most precious treasures.
These letters written, and M. Linders' few papers, which were
of little interest or importance, examined, Graham had
exhausted his sources of possible information, and could only
trust no obstacle would intervene to prevent his little charge
being at once received at the convent, and placed under her
aunt's guardianship and care. So, with as little delay as
possible, they had packed up, and set off on their journey:
and now, as Madelon stands at the window of the little hotel
salon, Paris lies many a league behind them, beyond the great
northern levels, across which they have been speeding for so
many hours.
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