an, but decidedly despotic, and she had gone too far. If indeed
Lashmar were acting in helpless obedience to her, it would be the
merest justice to make an attempt at rescuing him and restoring his
liberty.

Not without moral significance was the facial likeness between Lady
Ogram in her youth and May Tomalin. One who had seen the girl as she
sat to-night in her bedroom, brooding deeply, without the least
inclination for repose, must have been struck by a new vigour in the
lines of her countenance. Thus--though with more of obstinate
purpose--had Arabella Tomalin been wont to look at moments of crisis in
her adventurous youth.

The clock was pointing to two, when May rose from the velvet-seated
chair, and went to the little writing-table which stood in another part
of the room. She took a plain sheet of note-paper, and, with a hand far
from steady, began, not writing, but printing, certain words, in large,
ill-formed capitals.

"HAVE MORE COURAGE. AIM HIGHER. IT IS NOT TOO LATE."

At this achievement she gazed smilingly. The ink having dried, she
folded the paper, and put it into an envelope, which she closed. Then
her face indicated a new effort. She could think of only one way of
disguising her hand in cursive--the common device of sloping it
backwards. This she attempted. The result failing to please her, she
tried again on a second envelope, and this time with success; the
writing looked masculine, and in no respect suggested its true
authorship. She had addressed the letter to Dyce Lashmar, Esq., at
Rivenoak.

Nine o'clock next morning saw her out of doors. In Sloane Street she
found a hansom, and was driven rap idly eastward. Before ten she sat in
her own room again, glowing with satisfaction.

CHAPTER XVIII

"At last," declared Mrs. Lashmar, "it really looks as if Dyce was going
to do something. I've just been writing to Lady Susan, and I have let
her see unmistakably what I think of her friendship. But I'm very glad
Dyce isn't indebted to her, for a more unendurable woman, when she
thinks she has done anyone a kindness, doesn't exist. If she gets a
place for a servant-girl, all the world is told of it, and she expects
you to revere her saintly benevolence. I am _very_ glad that she never
did anything for Dyce. Indeed, I always felt that she was very little
use. I doubt whether she has the slightest influence with respectable
people."

It was just after breakfast, and the day promised to be the