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.
On a sofa at the further end Bertram Chesleigh lay sleeping in a careless position, as if he had just thrown himself down, wearied and overcome with fatigue.
The jet-black hair was tossed carelessly back from his high, white brow, and the thick, dark lashes lay heavily upon his cheeks, as if his slumber was deep and dreamless.
A small table was drawn closely to his side, littered with writing materials, and a pen with the ink scarcely dried upon it, lay beside a letter just stamped and sealed, and addressed to:
Richard Leith.
No. —— Park Avenue, New York.
As Golden glided across the room, and paused, with her small hand resting upon the table, the superscription of the letter caught her eyes by the merest chance. She started, caught it up in her hand and scanned it eagerly.
"Richard Leith," she read, and her voice trembled with eagerness. "How strange! Why is he writing to Richard Leith?"
She glanced at the sleeper, but not the quiver of an eyelash betrayed disturbance at her presence.