Richard Leith went down to his office, and threw himself heavily into a chair, bowing his gray head dejectedly on his hands.
His brain was almost crazed with the agony of the last hour's discovery.
The sealed book of the past had been roughly torn open again, and in agony of soul he repented the selfish course he had pursued with the fair, young wife he had stolen from her home and friends.
Where was she now, his beautiful, golden-haired darling?
What fate had kept her from her home and friends, and from the little child that had come to such bitter grief in the absence of the mother-love that might have shielded her from harm?
He sprang from his chair, and paced impatiently up and down the floor, while he hurriedly settled his plans. He would leave for the south that night.
He would seek out John Glenalvan, and charge him with his sin.
He would force him to unfold the mystery of little Golden's disappearance. Perhaps, oh, God, the villain had murdered her.
If he had, he should suffer the dire punishment the law meted out for such wretched criminals.
"But before I go," he said to himself, grimly, "I will go and see Desmond. If he has lied to me heretofore, woe be unto him. The base betrayer of my poor child's innocence shall receive no mercy at my hands."