within.  As if in a dream she pressed the spring, and realized that the carefully planned hiding place, was hiding place no more.  She stood still with outstretched arms, as if crucified.  The mute evidence of that opened door was not to be refuted.  Her enemy had triumphed; her own sin had found her out.  No self-pity eased the awful moments.  Hot pity poured in upon her heart, but not for herself in this hour of misery—­but for her daughter, for the innocent sweet soul of truth, whose faith had been shattered, whose deepest love had been betrayed, whose belief in honor had been destroyed.  Where had she fled?  Into whose heart had she poured the torrent of her grief and shame?  Could there be one thought of love, of forgiveness?  Ah, she was a mother no longer.  She had sold her sacred trust.  She had no rights, no privileges.  She must go—­go quickly, efface herself forever.  That was her duty, that was the only way.  Like a mortally wounded creature, she thought only of some small, cramped, sheltered corner, some lair wherein to die.

With an effort she turned from the room, closed the door, and stood uncertain where to turn.  Down the corridor, at its far end, was Dorothy’s room.  The thought drew her.  She turned the knob, found the switch, and hesitated on the thresh-hold.  Should she go in?  Should she, the sin-stained soul, dare profane the sanctuary, the virginal altar of the pure in heart!  Yes—­ah, yes!—­for this last time!  She was a mother still.

She entered, and cast herself on her knees by the little pink and white bed.  She had no tears—­the springs of relief were dried in the flame of her heart’s hell.  She found Dorothy’s pillow, a mass of dainty embroidery and foolish frills.  She laid her hot cheek on its cool linen surface.  In a passion of loss she kissed each leaf and rose of its needlework garland.

Then she rose to her feet.  She must go, she must disappear—­now, and forever from the world that had known her.  She would send one message when the time came—­one message—­to the one man she trusted, to the one man who would fulfill her wish—­that in the years to come, his watchful care should guard her child from further harm.  But that, too, must wait.  She rose to her feet, and crossed to the dressing-table.  There was Dorothy’s picture—­her little girl’s picture, the one she preferred to all the others.  She slipped it from its silver frame, and clasped it to her breast.  She could not bear to look upon the room as she left it.  She turned off the light, and crept away like a thief.  She was trembling now.  The calmness that had been hers as she heard her death sentence, was gone.  Her overtaxed body and mind rebelled.  It was with difficulty that she made her way through the deserted rooms and stumbled to the street and the waiting cab.

“Where to?” the chauffeur asked.

She gave the name of one of the large hotels.  Yes, once in some such caravanserai, she might elude all pursuit.  In one door and out of another—­and who was to find her trace in the seething mass of the city’s life?  The simple transaction of paying her fare, and entering the hotel became strangely difficult.  Words eluded her, she was conscious that the chauffeur eyed her oddly as he handed her her bag.