Penelope was a perverse and calculating young person. She was her own mistress and privileged to ride as often as she pleased, but it seemed rather odd—although splendidly decorous—that she did not venture upon Mr. Shaw's estate for more than a week after her first encounter with the feudal baron. If she found a peculiarly feminine satisfaction in speculating on his disappointment, it is not to be wondered at. Womanly insight told her that Randolph Shaw rode forth each day and watched with hawk-like vigilance for the promised trespasser. In her imagination, she could almost hear him curse the luck that was helping her to evade the patrol.

One morning, after a rain, she rode with the duke to the spot where Shaw had drawn his line in the road. She felt a thrill of something she could not define on discovering that the wet soil on the opposite side of the line was disfigured by a mass of fresh hoof-prints. She rejoiced to find that his vigil was incessant and worthy of the respect it imposed. The desire to visit the haunted house was growing more and more irresistible, but she turned it aside with all the relentless perverseness of a woman who feels it worth while to procrastinate.

Truth to tell, Randolph Shaw was going hollow-eyed and faint in his ceaseless, racking watch for trespassers.

Penelope laughed aloud as she gazed upon the tangle of hoof-prints. The duke looked as surprised as it was possible for him to look after the wear of the past night.

“Hang it all, Penelope,” he said. “I did n't say anything, don't you know.”

“I was just thinking,” she said hastily, “what fun it would be for us to explore the haunted house.”

“Oh, I say, Pen, that's going out of the way for a little fun, is n't it? My word, it 's a filthy old house with rats and mice and all that—no place for a ghost, much less a nice little human being like you. They're like that.”

“I think you are afraid to go,” said she.

“Afraid of ghosts? Pshaw!” sniffed the duke, sticking out his chest.

“Yes, Shaw! That's whom you're afraid of.”

“Now, see here, Pen, you should n't say that. Shaw's a d—, a cad. See what Cecil did to him. Remember that? Well, pooh! What would I do to him?” Penelope looked him over critically.

“I'll admit that you're larger and younger than Cecil,” she confessed grudgingly. “But they say Mr. Shaw is a giant-killer.” The duke dropped his monocle and guffawed loudly.

“Good!” he cried in the ecstasy of pride. His worn, dissipated face lighted up with unwonted interest. “I say, Pen, that's the nicest thing you've said to me in a week. You've been so deuced cold of late. I don't understand. I'm not such a bad lot, you know.”

“Tell that to Mrs. De Peyton and Mrs. Corwith. They're looking for the good in everything.”

“By Jove, I believe you're jealous! This is the proudest moment of my life.”

“Don't be silly! And don't try to make love to me any more. Wait until I'm married,” she added with a laugh, the irony of which escaped him.

“But, hang it all, suppose you should marry some one else and not me.”

“That's what I mean.”

“Oh!” he said, perplexed. Then, as if his stupidity called for an explanation: “I had a beastly night. Did n't go to bed till four. But, I say, why can't I have the same privilege as these other chaps? Corwith makes love to you and so does Odwell, and, hang it, they're both married. It's rotten mean of—”

“Their wives are accountable for their manners, not I. But, come; will you go to Renwood's with me?”

“I'd rather talk to you in that nice little corner of the billiard-room at home, if you—”

“But I don't need a brandy and soda. Oh!” This exclamation came with the discovery of an approaching horseman. “It's Mr. Shaw—I'm sure.”

Randolph Shaw, loyal to his feudal promise, appeared in the road a couple of hundred yards away. He drew rein and from that distance surveyed the two who were so near to encroaching upon his preserves. He sat straight and forbidding in the saddle. For a full minute the two factions stared at each other. Then, without a sign of recognition, Shaw turned and rode rapidly away.

“He rides like a gentleman,” commented Miss Drake, after reflection.

“Indian blood in him,” remarked her companion.

“Let us go home,” said she, whirling her horse like a flash. The duke had some difficulty in keeping abreast of her during the ride and he lost sight of her altogether after they dismounted at Bazelhurst Villa.

The momentary glimpse of a real man set Penelope's opinions on edge for the remainder of the day and night. Shaw, whatever else he might be, was a man. Even while others addressed her in conversation she was absent-mindedly recalling to memory certain English gentlemen at home who could stand comparison with this handsome fellow across the danger line. But to compare any one of the men in Lady Bazelhurst's house party oh, it was absurd! She looked them over. Dull-eyed, blasÉ, frayed by the social whirl, worn out, pulseless, all of them. They talked automobile, bridge, women, and self in particular; in the seclusion of a tÊte-À-tÊte they talked love with an ardour that lost most of its danger because it was from force of habit. One of the men was even now admitting in her ear that he had not spent an evening alone with his wife in four years.

“There's always something doing,” he said. “A week or two ago, by Jove, you would n't believe it, but we had an evening turn up without a thing on hand. Strangest thing I ever knew. Neither of us had a thing on. We said we'd stay at home and go to bed early, just to see how it felt. Well, what do you think? We sat up and read till half past ten o'clock and then both of us thought of it at the same time. We dressed and went down to Rector's and waited for the theatres to let out. Three o'clock when we got home. You can't imagine what a queer experience it is, being all alone with one's wife.”

“Don't you love your wife, Mr. Odwell?”

“Certainly; but there's always a crowd.”

Both of them glanced over at pretty Mrs. Odwell. She was looking down at her plate demurely while Reggie Van Voort talked straight into her pink ear, his eyes gleaming with the zest of invasion. “I say, Miss Drake, you won't mind talking to me awhile after dinner, will you?” went on Odwell, something like relief in his voice.

After dinner she was obliged to set him straight in a little matter. They were sitting on the terrace and he had thrown away his half-smoked cigarette, an act in itself significant. She had been listening patiently, from sheer habit and indifference, to what he was saying, but at last she revolted.

“Don't! You shall not sav such things to me. I am not your kind, I fancy, Mr. Odwell,” she said. “I don't know why you should tell me of your chorus-girl friends—of your suppers and all that. I don't care to hear of them and I don't intend that you shall use me as a subject of illustration. I am going upstairs.”

“Oh, come now, that's rather rough, just as we were getting on so well. All the fellows do the same—”

“I know. You need not tell me. And you all have wives at home, too,” with intense scorn.

“Now, that's where you wrong us. They're not at home, you know. That's just it.”

“Never mind, Mr. Odwell; I'm going in.” She left him and entered the house. For a minute or two he looked after her in wonder, and then, softly whistling, made his way over to where De Peyton, through some oversight, was talking to his own wife. De Peyton unceremoniously announced that he was going upstairs to write a letter.

Penelope, flushed with disgust and humiliation, drew near a crowd of men and women in the long living-room. Her brother was haranguing the assemblage, standing forth among them like an unconquered bantam. In spite of herself, she felt a wave of shame and pity creep over her as she looked at him.

“Barminster says the fellow ran when he saw him to-day,” his lordship was saying.

“Can't Tompkins and his men keep that man off my land?” demanded Lady Bazel-hurst Every one took note of the pronoun. Her ladyship's temples seemed to narrow with hatred. Bazelhurst had told the men privately that she was passing sleepless nights in order to “hate that fellow Shaw” to her full capacity.

“My dear, I have given positive orders to Tompkins and he swears he'll carry them out,” said he hastily.

“I suppose Tompkins is to throw him into the river again.”

“He is to shoot that fellow Shaw if he does n't keep off our land. I've had enough of it. They say he rode his confounded plough horse all over the west end the other day.” Penelope smiled reflectively. “Trampled the new fern beds out of existence and all that. Hang him, Tompkins will get him if he persists. He has told the men to take a shot at the rascal on sight. Tompkins doesn't love him, you know.”

Penelope went her way laughing and—forgot the danger that threatened Randolph Shaw.

The next morning, quite early, she was off for a canter. Some magnetic force drew her toward that obliterated line in the roadway. Almost as she came up to it and stopped, Randolph Shaw rode down the hillside through the trees and drew rein directly opposite, the noses of their horses almost touching. With a smile he gave the military salute even as she gasped in self-conscious dismay.

“On duty, Miss Drake. No trespassing,” he said. There was a glad ring in his voice. “Please don't run away. You 're on the safe side.”

“I'm not going to run,” she said, her cheek flushing. “How do you know where the line is? It has been destroyed by the ravages of time.”

“Yes. It has seemed a year. This thing of acting sentinel so religiously is a bit wearing.” His great, friendly dog came across the line, however, and looked bravely up into the enemy's face, wagging his tail.

“Traitor! Come back, Bonaparte,” cried his master.

“What a beautiful dog,” she cried, sincere admiration in big dog.

“'Love me, love my dog,' is my motto.”

The conversation was not prolonged. Penelope began to find herself on rather friendly terms with the enemy. Confusion came over her when she remembered that she was behaving in a most unmaidenly manner. Doubtless that was why she brought the meeting to a close by galloping away.

The ways of fortune are strange, look at them from any point of view. Surprising as it may seem, a like encounter happened on the following day and—aye, on the day after and every day for a week or more. Occasions there were when Penelope was compelled to equivocate shamefully in order to escape the companionship of the duke, the count, or others of their ilk. Once, when the guardian of the road was late at his post, she rode far into the enemy's country, actually thrilled by the joy of adventure. When he appeared far down the road, she turned and fled with all the sensations of a culprit. And he thundered after her with vindictiveness that deserved better results. Across the line she drew rein and faced him defiantly, her hair blown awry, her cheeks red, her eyes sparkling.

“No trespass!” she cried, holding up her gloved hand. He stopped short, for that was one of the terms of truce.

The next day he again was missing, but she was not to be caught by his stratagem. Instead of venturing into the trap he had prepared for her, she remained on her side of the line, smiling at the thought of him in hiding far up the road. If any one had suggested to her that she was developing too great an interest in this stalwart gentleman, she would have laughed him to scorn. It had not entered her mind to question herself as to the pleasure she found in being near him. She was founding her actions on the basis that he was a real man and that the little comedy of adventure was quite worth while.

At length an impatient line appeared on her fair brow, a resentful gleam in her eyes. His remissness was an impertinence! It was the last time she would come—but a sudden thought struck her like a blow. She turned white and red by turns. Had he tired of the sport? Had the novelty worn off? Was he laughing at her for a silly coquette? The riding crop came down sharply upon her horse's flank and a very deeply agitated young woman galloped off toward Bazelhurst Villa, hurrying as though afraid he might catch sight of her in flight.

A quarter of a mile brought a change in her emotions. British stubbornness arose to combat an utter rout. After all, why should she run away from him? With whimsical bravado, she turned off suddenly into the trail that led to the river, her colour deepening with the consciousness that, after all, she was vaguely hoping she might see him somewhere before the morning passed. Through the leafy pathway she rode at a snail's pace, brushing the low-hanging leaves and twigs from about her head with something akin to petulance. As she neared the river the neighing of a horse hard by caused her to sit erect with burning ears. Then she relapsed into a smile, remembering that it might have come from the game warden's horse. A moment later her searching eyes caught sight of Shaw's horse tied to a sapling and on Bazelhurst ground, many hundred feet from his own domain. She drew rein sharply and looked about in considerable trepidation. Off to the right lay the log that divided the lands, but nowhere along the bank of the river could she see the trespasser. Carefully she resumed her way, ever on the lookout, puzzled not a little by the unusual state of affairs.

Near the river trail she came upon the man, but he paid no heed to her approach. He sat with his face in his hands and—she could not believe her eyes and ears—he was sobbing bitterly. For an instant her lips curled in the smile of scornful triumph and then something like disgust came over her. There was mockery in her voice as she called out to him.

“Have you stubbed your toe, little boy?” He looked up, dazed. Then he arose, turning his back while he dashed his hand across his eyes. When he glanced back at her he saw that she was smiling. But she also saw something in his face that drove the smile away. Absolute rage gleamed in his eyes.

“So it is real war,” he said hoarsely, his face quivering. “Your pitiful cowards want it to be real, do they? Well, that's what it shall be, hang them! They shall have all they want of it! Look! This is their way of fighting, is it? Look!”

He pointed to his feet. Her bewildered eyes saw that his hand was bloody and a deathly sickness came over her. He was pointing to the outstretched, inanimate form of the dog that had been his friend and comrade. She knew that the beast was dead and she knew that her brother's threat had not been an idle one. A great wave of pity and horror swept over her. Moisture sprang to her eyes on the moment.

“He—he is dead?” she exclaimed.

“Yes—and killed by some cowardly brute whose neck I'd like to wring. That dog—my Bonaparte—who knew no feud, who did no wrong! Your brother wants war, does he? Well, I'll give him all—”

“But my brother could not have done a thing like this,” she cried, slipping from her saddle and advancing toward him quickly. “Oh, no, no! Not this! He is not that sort, I know. It must have been an accident and—”

“Accident! Don't come near me! I mean it. God, my heart is too full of vengeance. Accident? Is this blood on my arm accidental? Bah! It was a deliberate attempt to murder me!”

“You? You too?” she gasped, reeling.

“Yes, they winged me too.”

“Let me see—let me help you!” she cried, coming up to his side, white-faced and terrified. “I won't stay away! You are hurt. Please! Please! I am not your enemy.”

For a long minute he held back, savagely resentful, glowering upon her, then his face softened and his hand went out to clasp hers. “I knew you had nothing to do with it. Forgive me—forgive my rudeness. Don't be alarmed about me. Two or three scattered shot struck me in the arm. The fellow's aim was bad when it came to me. But he—he got the dog! Poor old Bonaparte! It's as if he were a—a brother; Miss Drake. I loved him and he loved me.

“You must let me see your arm. I will not take no for an answer. It must need attention—”

“Believe me, it is nothing. I have tied my handkerchief about it—two little shot, that's all. The first charge riddled the dog. But I forget. I am still on your sister's land. At any minute I may be shot from behind some tree. I—I could n't help crying, Miss Drake. It was cruel—fiendish! Now, if you 'll permit me, I'll take my dead off of your land.”

“Stop! I must know about it. Tell me; how did it happen?”

“I can't talk about it to you.”

“Why not? Do you think I condone this outrage? Do you think I can support such means of warfare? You do not know me, Mr. Shaw; you do not know an Englishwoman's love of fairness.”

“By Jove, do you mean it?” his eyes lighted up. “But, after all, you belong to the other camp,” he added dejectedly. “I—I wish to heaven, Miss Drake, you were not one of them!”

“My brother—Cecil would not have permitted this,” she tried to apologize, remembering with a cold heart that Lord Bazelhurst had given the very instructions of which this was the result.

“We can't discuss it, Miss Drake. Some one from your side of the line killed my dog and then fired at me. I'll admit I was trespassing, but not until the dog was shot. He was on Lady Bazelhurst's land when he was shot. It was not until after that that I trespassed, if you are pleased to call it such. But I was unarmed; hang the luck!”

The way he said it conveyed much to her understanding.

“Tell me, please.”

“I 've had murder in my heart for half an hour, Miss Drake. Somehow you soothe me.” He sat down on the log again and leaned his head upon his hand. With his eyes upon the dead dog he went on, controlling his anger with an effort: “I rode down the river road this morning for a change, intending to go up later on to our trysting place through the wood.” She heard him call it a trysting place without a thought of resentment or shame. “When I came to the log there I stopped, but Bonaparte, lawless old chap, kept on. I paid no attention to him, for I was thinking of—of something else. He had raced around in the forbidden underbrush for some time before I heard the report of a gun near at hand. The dog actually screamed like a human being. I saw him leap up from the ground and then roll over. Of course, I—well, I trespassed. Without thinking of my own safety I flew to where the dog was lying. He looked up into my face and whined just as he died. I don't remember how I got off the horse. The next I knew I was rushing blindly into the brush toward a place where I saw smoke, cursing like a fiend. Then came the second shot and the stinging in my arm. It brought me to my senses. I stopped and a moment later I saw a man running down along the bank of the stream. I—oh, well, there is n't any more to tell. I don't know who fired the shots. I could n't see his face.”

“It was Tompkins,” she cried. “I know it was. He had his orders—” but she checked herself in confusion.

“His orders? Do you mean to say—Miss Drake, did your brother instruct him to kill me?” She quailed beneath his look.

“I—I can't say anything more about it, Mr. Shaw,” she murmured, so piteously that he was touched. For a seemingly interminable length of time his hard eyes looked into hers and then they softened.

“I understand,” he said simply. “You cannot talk about it. I'll not ask any questions.”

“My brother is weak in her hands,” she managed to say in extenuation.

“After all, it is n't a pleasant subject. If you don't mind, we'll let it drop—that is, between you and me, Miss Drake. I hope the war won't break off our—”

“Don't suggest it, please! I 'd rather you would n't. We are friends, after all. I thought it was playing at war—and I can't tell you how shocked I am.”