n the last degree unlikely that Ronald would make any striking
success in literature in the time still remaining under the terms of the
agreement, unless--as she herself had hinted--desperate measures were
adopted to meet desperate needs. A scheme was hatching in Margot's
brain,--daring, uncertain; such a scheme as no one but a young and self-
confident girl could have conceived, but holding nevertheless the
possibilities of success. She wanted to think it out, and movement in
the fresh air gave freedom to her thoughts.

Really it was simple enough,--requiring only a little trouble, a little
engineering, a little harmless diplomacy. Ronald was a mere babe where
such things were concerned, but he would be obedient and do as he was
told, and for the rest, Margot was confident of her own powers.

The speculative frown gave way to a smile; she laughed, a gleeful,
girlish laugh, and tossed her head, unconsciously acting a little
duologue, with nods and frowns and upward languishing glance. All
things seem easy to sweet and twenty, when the sun shines, and the scent
of spring is in the air. The completed scheme stood out clear and
distinct in Margot's mind. Only one small clue was lacking, and that
she was even now on the way to discover!

CHAPTER THREE.

A TONIC.

Margot wandered about the Park so lost in her own thoughts that she was
dismayed to find that it was already one o'clock, when warned by the
departing stream of nursemaids that it must be approaching luncheon hour
she at last consulted her watch.

Half an hour's walk, cold cutlets and an irate Agnes, were prospects
which did not smile upon her; it seemed infinitely more agreeable to
turn in an opposite direction, and make as quickly as possible for
Oxford Terrace, where she would be certain of a welcome from poor sad
Edith, who was probably even now lunching on bread and cheese and
anxiety, while her two sturdy infants tucked into nourishing beefsteak.
Edith was one of those dear things who did not preach if you were late,
but was content to give you what she had, without apologising.

Margot trotted briskly past Dorset Square, took a short cut behind the
Great Central Hotel, and emerged into the dreary stretch of Marylebone
Road.

Even in the spring sunshine it looked dull and depressing, with the
gloomy hospital abutting at the corner, the flights of dull red flats on
the right.

A block of flats--in appearance the most depressing--in reality