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.