"It is true, madam, I cannot deny it," replied the girl, crimson with burning blushes, "but I--oh, I call Heaven to witness my truth, Mrs. Desmond, I am nothing to your husband, I was--was--married before I came to you." "Then where is your husband?" "I cannot tell," faltered the white lips. "That is strange," said Mrs. Desmond, scornfully. "Has he left you?" "Yes, madam," with a pitiful droop of the fair head. "Why did he do so?" inquired the lady "I cannot tell you," Golden murmured, sorrowfully. Ah, if Mrs. Desmond had only known the truth, that it was her brother's wife kneeling there ashamed and dejected before her. But she did not dream it, and her anger rose at the girl's unsatisfactory replies to her questions. "I will not ask you any more questions," she said, "I do not wish to hear more of your weak falsehoods. Get up from there, and go. Leave the house now and at once, before I publish your conduct to everyone. You need not go to Mrs. Markham for sympathy. I shall go to her at once and tell her what you are." Golden stood still, staring at her blankly a moment. She was dazed and frightened at the shameful suspicion that had fallen upon her, and she did not know how to convince Mrs. Desmond of her innocence. "Oh, madam, if I could only induce you to believe that I am not the vile creature you think me," she cried in anguish. "Hush; leave the room!" Mrs. Desmond answered stormily. "Go, and take with you the bitterest curse of an injured woman. May the good God speedily avenge my cruel wrongs!" She crossed to the door, threw it open, and pointed silently to it. Golden obeyed the mute sentence of her lifted finger and glided out, a forlorn, little figure, feeling almost annihilated by the vivid lightning of Mrs. Desmond's angry eyes. The door slammed heavily behind her, and she walked along through the brightly lighted hotel corridor, for the twilight had fallen long ago. The rain was falling heavily, and Golden shrank and trembled at the thought of encountering the black, inclement night. The thought came to her--why should she go? She was ill, friendless, almost penniless. It was her husband's right to protect her. And here she was passing his very door. Should she not appeal to him for comfort in this terrible hour? Her trembling limbs refused to carry her past his door. She turned the handle with a weak and trembling hand and stepped over the threshold. CHAPTER XXX. When Golden on the impulse of the moment had entered the room that she knew was Bertram Chesleigh's, she stood frightened and trembling inside the closed door, afraid to look up at first at the man who had treated her so cruelly. Gathering courage at the shuddering remembrance of the terrors that awaited her in the darkness of the gloomy night outside, she looked up at last, determined to make at least one appeal to her husband. The gas had been lighted and it threw a flood of brightness over every object in the room.