One day an idea came to him. "I'll go to
the good looking woman at the settlement house," he told himself. "She
won't know who killed the boy but she can find out. I'll make her find
out."
* * * * *
In Margaret Ormsby McGregor was to know what was to him a new kind of
womanhood, something sure, reliant, hedged about and prepared as a
good soldier is prepared, to have the best of it in the struggle for
existence. Something he had not known was yet to make its cry to the
man.
Margaret Ormsby like McGregor himself had not been defeated by life.
She was the daughter of David Ormsby, head of the great plough trust
with headquarters in Chicago, a man who because of a certain fine
assurance in his attitude toward life had been called "Ormsby the
Prince" by his associates. Her mother Laura Ormsby was small nervous
and intense.
With a self-conscious abandonment, lacking just a shade of utter
security, Margaret Ormsby, beautiful in body and beautifully clad,
went here and there among the outcasts of the First Ward. She like all
women was waiting for an opportunity of which she did not talk even to
herself. She was something for the single-minded and primitive
McGregor to approach with caution.
Hurrying along a narrow street lined with cheap saloons McGregor went
in at the door of the settlement house and sat in a chair at a desk
facing Margaret Ormsby.
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