Margaret's heart beat fast as the hansom stopped at the house in Great College Street. Mrs. Gilman opened the door.

"Miss Hunstan went away on Saturday night, miss," she said; "she's gone to Germany for three weeks."

"Oh yes—to Bayreuth; she said she might go, but I didn't think it would be so soon." Margaret stood dismayed.

"Is there anything I can do, miss? You are the young lady that came that morning with Mr. Carringford, and put out the flowers?"

"Yes—yes! I thought Miss Hunstan would advise me," Margaret answered, desperately. "I have come to London alone this time, not with my father, and I want to live somewhere." For a moment Mrs. Gilman looked at her doubtfully.

"You are very young to be alone," she said.

"Oh yes, I'm very young; but that has nothing to do with it."

"And you have no friends in London?"

"I'm afraid they're all away," Margaret answered. "Mrs. and Miss Lakeman are going to Scotland to-day."

"I know them," Mrs. Gilman said, her face brightening, "and you know Mr. Carringford, too?"

"Oh yes. I stayed at the Langham Hotel with my father," she went on, "but I am afraid to go there now—alone."

"I have a bedroom and sitting-room; perhaps you would like them, miss; they are the drawing-rooms. Miss Hunstan preferred the lower floor because it was easier to come in and out. I don't know if they'd be too expensive?"

"Oh no," said Margaret, "I have plenty of money," for it seemed to her that she had an inexhaustible fortune; and as this was a pleasant statement, Mrs. Gilman invited her in with alacrity. And so in an hour she was installed in two wainscoted rooms—as comfortable, if not as dainty, as Miss Hunstan's beneath, and Mrs. Gilman had explained to Margaret that she had known Miss Hunstan ever since she came to England, and had often gone to the theatre with her or fetched her back. And Margaret had told Mrs. Gilman that she wanted to be an actress, too.

"In time, miss, I suppose," Mrs. Gilman answered, with a motherly smile. Then, when a telegram had been despatched to Chidhurst—for Margaret felt that her mother's heart had been aching all the morning—and when she had had breakfast alone in her own little sitting-room, she felt that she had indeed set out on her way through the world alone. She determined to make no sign to Mr. Farley till the Lakemans had started for Scotland—they were to start at ten o'clock that morning from Euston. To-morrow it would be safe, and she would write and ask if he would let her "walk on" as Miss Hunstan had done once.

But suppose he refused, what then? Suddenly there flashed upon her the remembrance of the dramatic agency in the Strand, that she had seen advertised when she was at the Langham. If Mr. Farley could do nothing for her, the agency might help her; it had said that engagements were guaranteed. A spirit of adventure made her determine to try and find it that very afternoon. It was in the Strand, where her father had bought her the Gladstone bag, and, in the odd way that trifles sometimes lodge in one's memory, the number of the house had remained with her. But now she was tired out with the long excitement and the night beneath the sky. She put her brown head down on a pillow, and in ten minutes was fast asleep.

She asked Mrs. Gilman for the address, and wrote to Miss Hunstan before she went out—a long letter, telling her all she had done and longed to do, and asking for her advice. Then she went in search of the agency, and found it easily. It was on a second floor, up a dirty staircase; she stopped to gather courage, and gave a feeble knock at the door, on which was painted in white letters, "Mr. Baker, Theatrical Agent."

"Come in!" said a voice. She entered and found a large room hung indiscriminately with playbills and advertisements. At a writing-table placed across the window sat a man of forty, with a florid face and a bald head. In an easy-chair by the fireplace was a woman, expensively and rather showily dressed. Her large, gray eyes were bright but expressionless. She had a quantity of fair hair done up elaborately; the color on her cheeks did not vary, she might have been any age between twenty-eight and forty. Leaning against the fireplace was a young man, clean shaven and well-dressed. Margaret heard him say:

"Certainly not, I won't pay a penny; if a manager has no faith in it he can leave it alone."

"You'll never get any one to risk it," the woman said, with a laugh. "Regeneration never pays—" she stopped as Margaret entered, and did not try to disguise the admiration into which she was surprised.

But Margaret felt that it would be impossible to speak before her. "Perhaps I'd better come another time?" she began. The young man by the fireplace looked at her intently, but he took the hint.

"Good-morning, Baker, I'll come round later," he said, and, with another look at Margaret, departed.

The man at the desk turned to her, "Now, madam, what can we do for you? You can speak before Miss Ramsey—in fact, if you've come about an engagement, she might be able to give you some advice." Margaret glanced quickly at the woman and then round the ugly office, and as she did so a little of the glamour of the stage seemed to vanish. Only for a moment; then her courage came back, and hope, which is never fickle long to youth, stood by her. This office was not the stage, not even its threshold, she thought; it was only the little narrow street, dreary and ill-kept, that branched off from the main thoroughfare.

"You look as if you'd come from the country," Miss Ramsey said. Her voice showed a desire to be friendly.

"Yes, I've come from the country," Margaret answered. She turned to Mr. Baker again, "I want to go on the stage," she said, "and understood that you could give help and advice."

"Certainly," he said, in a business-like tone, and opened a book beside him. "We charge one guinea for entering your name."

She looked at him, and a smile came to her lips. "I want to know first what you can do for me," she answered, and Mr. Baker came to the conclusion that she was not such a fool as he had imagined.

"We can do everything for you, my dear young lady, but you must give us a reason for taking an interest in you. We don't give advice gratis—" the door opened and a man entered.

"Can you tell me," he asked, referring to a notebook, "where 'The Ticket of Leave Man' was played last, and whether Miss Josephine de Grey, who came out in the provinces last year, has had any engagements lately?"

Mr. Baker consulted two books from a shelf behind him and answered off-hand, "'Ticket of Leave Man,' Prince of Wales's Theatre, Harrogate, 22d last February, for a week. Miss Josephine de Grey played five nights at the Royalty this March; engagement came to an end in consequence of the non-success of the management."

"Thank you," the man said, put down a fee, and departed. The incident had its effect on Margaret.

"I will pay the guinea," she said. "Would you tell me how I am to begin?"

He took up the book once more—"Margaret Vincent—really your own name, is it?—tall, graceful, good-looking. Shall we say nineteen? Would you like to play boys' parts?"

"Certainly not."

"Burlesque or singing parts?"

"No, I want to act, or learn to act, in real plays. Some day I want to play in Shakespeare's;" she felt that it was sacrilege to mention his name in these surroundings. "Of course I know I must play very small parts at first."

"Any one to back you with money?"

"No."

"Any friends among the aristocracy or the press?"

"No."

"She'll soon have them," said Miss Ramsey, with a laugh, which Mr. Baker echoed in a manner that Margaret found particularly offensive.

"I quite agree," he said. "And you don't know any one in the profession?" he asked her.

"I know Mr. Dawson Farley, and Miss Hunstan a little."

His manner changed altogether. "My dear young lady, what could be better? They are at the top of the profession." He closed the book as if he wanted time for reflection. "Our fee for appearance without salary is two guineas; with salary, ten per cent. I think you said Great College Street, Westminster—secluded and near the Abbey—very nice indeed," writing down the address. "You might call again, Miss Vincent, or you shall hear from us," and he closed the book.

Margaret turned quickly to the door, giving Miss Ramsey and Mr. Baker a little haughty nod between them.

"I don't think much of the young lady's manner," Mr. Baker said, after she had gone, "but her face ought to be a fortune. I wonder if she really knows Farley?"

Miss Ramsey got up and looked at herself in the fly-blown glass and at the dirty cards stuck in its frame. "Wish I were as young as that girl; I'm tired of playing in rubbish," she said.

"Why don't you ask Farley to give you something?"

"No good. I can't stand his patronizing ways."

"Make Murray write you a part."

"Bosh! He read me an act of one of his plays, long-winded talk and nothing to do, too much poetry, and not enough—not enough bigness for me. I want something to move about with in a play. Besides, he won't risk any money even on his own stuff; too platonic for that—platonics are always economical. Ta-ta."

"Have a whiskey and soda?"

"No, thank you," and she, too, disappeared down the dirty staircase that Margaret had taken a few minutes before.