"Mr. Barton—" she hesitated.
"Exactly so; Mr. Barton, my intimate friend, who has confided all to me, and who desired me to meet him here at this hour."
"My mother is not at home," hesitated the young girl, "and, in her absence, I do not like to—"
"Receive strangers, you were about to add? Well, Miss, I am not a stranger. As the intimate friend of Mr. Barton, who especially desired me to meet him here—"
These words seemed to resolve all her doubts. She motioned me to enter, and we passed into a small room, neatly furnished, with the light which came through the curtained windows, shining upon a picture,—the portrait of Walter Howard, my husband.
"Capital likeness of Barton," I said, carelessly tapping my switch against my boot.
"Yes,—yes," she replied as she took a seat at the opposite end of the sofa,—"but not so handsome."
In the course of two hours, in which with a maddened pulse and heaving breast, I waited for the appearance of my husband, I learned from the young girl the following facts:—She was a poor girl, and her mother, with whom she lived, a widow in very moderate circumstances. Her name was Ada Bulmer. Mr. Lawrence Barton (this, of course, was the assumed name of my husband,) was a wealthy gentleman of a noble heart,—he had saved her life in a railroad accident, some months before. He had been unhappy, however, in marriage; was now divorced from a wicked and unfaithful woman; and,—here was the climax,—"and next week we are to be married, and mother, Lawrence, and myself will proceed to Europe directly after our marriage."
This was Ada's story, which I heard with emotions that can scarcely be imagined. Every word planted a hell in my heart. At length, toward nightfall, a knock was heard, and Ada hastened to the door. Presently I heard my husband's step in the entry, and then his voice,—
"Dearest,——" there was the sound of a kiss,—"I have got rid of that infamous woman, who killed her first husband, and have turned all my property into ready money. On Monday we start for Europe."