Lord and Lady Bazelhurst, with the more energetic members of their party, spent the day in a so-called hunting excursion to the hills south of the Villa. Toward nightfall they returned successfully empty-handed and rapacious for bridge. Penelope, full of smouldering anger, had spent the afternoon in her room, disdaining every call of sociability. She had awakened to the truth of the situation in so far as she was concerned. She was at least seeing things from Shaw's point of view. Her resentment was not against the policy of her brother but the overbearing, petulant tyranny of her American sister-in-law. From the beginning she had disliked Evelyn; now she despised her. With the loyal simplicity of a sister she absolved Cecil of all real blame in the outrage of the morning, attributing everything to the cruelty and envy of the despot who held the purse-strings from which dangled the pliable fortunes of Bazelhurst. The Bazelhursts, one and all—ancestors thrown in—swung back and forth on the pendulum of her capriciousness. Penelope, poor as a church mouse, was almost wholly dependent upon her brother, who in turn owed his present affluence to the more or less luckless movement of the matrimonial market. The girl had a small, inadequate income—so small it was almost worth jesting about.

Here was Penelope, twenty-two, beautiful, proud, fair-minded, and healthy, surveying herself for the first time from a new and an entirely different point of view. She was not pleased with the picture. She began to loathe herself more than she pitied her brother. Something like a smile came into her clouded face as she speculated on Randolph Shaw's method of handling Evelyn Banks had she fallen to him as a wife. The quiet power in that man's face signified the presence of a manhood that—ah, and just here it occurred to her that Lady Bazelhurst felt the force of that power even though she never had seen the man. She hated him because he was strong enough to oppose her, to ignore her, to laugh at her impotence.

The smouldering anger and a growing sense of fairness combined at length in the determination to take her brother and his wife to task for the morning's outrage, let the consequences be what they might. When she joined the people downstairs before dinner, there was a red spot in each cheek and a steady look in her eyes that caused the duke to neglect woefully the conversation he was carrying on with Mrs. Odwell.

Dinner was delayed for nearly half an hour while four of the guests finished their “rubber.” Penelope observed that the party displayed varying emotions. It afterwards transpired that the hunters had spent most of the afternoon in her ladyship's distant lodge playing bridge for rather high stakes. Little Miss Folsom was pitifully unresponsive to the mirth of Mr. Odwell. She could ill afford to lose six hundred dollars. Lady Bazelhurst was in a frightful mood. Her guests had so far forgotten themselves as to win more than a thousand dollars of the Banks legacy and she was not a cheerful loser,—especially as his lordship had dropped an additional five hundred. The winners were riotously happy. They had found the sport glorious. An observer, given to deductions, might have noticed that half of the diners were immoderately hilarious, the other half studiously polite.

Lord Bazelhurst wore a hunted look and drank more than one or two highballs. From time to time he cast furtive glances at his wife. He laughed frequently at the wrong time and mirthlessly.

“He's got something on his mind,” whispered Odwell in comment.

“Yes; he always laughs when there is anything on his mind,” replied Mrs. De Peyton. “That 's the way he gets it off.”

After dinner no one proposed cards. The party edged off into twos and threes and explained how luck had been with or against them. Penelope, who could not afford to play for stakes, and had the courage to say so, sat back and listened to the conversation of her brother and the group around him. The duke was holding forth on the superiority of the Chinese over the Japanese as servants and Bazelhurst was loudly defending the Japanese navy.

“Hang it all, Barminster, the Japs could eat 'em up,” he proclaimed. “Could n't they?” to the crowd.

“I'm talking about servants, Cecil,” observed the duke.

“And shoot? Why, they're the greatest gunners in the world. By Jove, I read somewhere the other day that they had hit what they shot at three million times out of—or, let me see, was it the Prussians who fired three million rounds and—”

“Oh, let's change the subject,” said the duke in disgust. “What's become of that Shaw fellow?” Penelope started and flushed, much to her chagrin. At the sound of Shaw's name Lady Bazelhurst, who was passing with the count, stopped so abruptly that her companion took half a dozen paces without her.

“Shaw? By Jove, do you know, I'd completely forgotten that fellow,” exclaimed Cecil.

“I thought you were going to shoot him, or shoot at him, or something like that. Can't you get him in range?”

“Oh, I was n't really in earnest about that, Barminster. You know we couldn't shoot at a fellow for such a thing—”

“Nonsense, Cecil,” said his wife. “You shoot poachers in England.”

“But this fellow is n't a poacher. He's a—a gentleman, I daresay—in some respects—not all, of course, my dear, but—”

“Gentleman? Ridiculous!” scoffed his wife.

“I—yes, quite right—a ridiculous gentleman, of course. Ha, ha! Isn't he, Barminster? But with all that, you know, I couldn't have Tompkins shoot him. He asked me the other day if he should take a shot at Shaw's legs, and I told him not to do anything so absurd.” Penelope's heart swelled with relief, and for the first time that evening she looked upon her brother with something like sisterly regard.

“It did n't matter, however,” said Lady Evelyn sharply. “I gave him instructions yesterday to shoot any trespasser from that side of the line. I can't see that we owe Mr. Shaw any especial consideration. He has insulted and ignored me at every opportunity. Why should he be permitted to trespass more than any other common lawbreaker? If he courts a charge of birdshot he should not expect to escape scot free.

“Birdshot wouldn't kill a man, you know, but it would—”

But Penelope could restrain herself no longer. The heartlessness of her sister-in-law overcame her prudence, and she interrupted the scornful mistress of the house, her eyes blazing, but her voice under perfect control. Her tall young figure was tense, and her fingers clasped the back of Miss Folsom's chair rather rigidly.

“I suppose you know what happened this morning,” she said, with such apparent restraint that every one looked at her expectantly.

“Do you mean in connection with Mr.—with Jack-the-Giant-Killer?” asked her ladyship, her eyes brightening.

“Some one of your servants shot him this morning,” said Penelope with great distinctness. There was breathless silence in the room.

“Shot him?” gasped Lord Bazelhurst, his thin red face going very white.

“Not—not fatally?” exclaimed Evelyn, aghast in spite of herself.

“No. The instructions were carried out. His wound in the arm is trifling. But the coward was not so generous when it came to the life of his innocent, harmless dog. He killed the poor thing. Evelyn, it's—it's like murder.”

“Oh,” cried her ladyship, relieved. “He killed the dog. I daresay Mr. Shaw has come to realize at last that we are earnest in this. Of course I am glad that the man is not badly hurt. Still, a few shot in the arm will hardly keep him in bounds. His legs were intended,” she laughed lightly. “What miserable aim Tompkins must take.”

“He's a bit off in his physiology, my dear,” said Cecil, with a nervous attempt at humour. He did not like the expression in his sister's face. Somehow, he was ashamed.

“Oh, it's bad enough,” said Penelope. “It was his left arm—the upper arm, too. I think the aim was rather good.”

“Pray, how do you know all of this, Penelope?” asked her ladyship, lifting her eyebrows. “I 've heard that you see Mr. Shaw occasionally, but you can't be his physician, I'm sure.”

Penelope flushed to the roots of her hair, but suppressed the retort which would have been in keeping with the provocation.

“Oh, dear, no!” she replied. “I'm too soft-hearted to be a physician. I saw Mr. Shaw just after the—ah—the incident.”

“You shaw Saw—I mean you saw Shaw?” gasped Bazelhurst.

“She sees him frequently, Cecil. It was not at all unusual that she should have seen him to-day. I daresay he waited to show you his wound before going to a surgeon.”

Penelope could not resist the temptation to invent a story befitting the moment. Assuming a look of concern, she turned to her brother and said: “He is coming to see you about it to-morrow, and he is coming armed to the teeth, attended by a large party of friends. Mr. Shaw says he will have satisfaction for the death of that dog if he has to shoot everybody on the place.”

“Good Lord!” cried the duke. There was instant excitement. “I believe the wretch will do it, too.”

“Oh, I say, Bazelhurst, settle with him for the dog,” said De Peyton nervously. He looked at his watch and then at his wife. The entire party now was listening to the principal speakers.

“Nonsense!” exclaimed Lady Evelyn. “He won't come. It's all bluster. Don't let it frighten you, Cecil. I know the manner of man.”

“I wish you could have seen him this morning,” murmured Penelope, thoroughly enjoying the unexpected situation. Her conscience was not troubled by the prevarication.

“By Jove, I think it would be wise to send over and find out what he valued the brute at,” said Cecil, mopping his brow.

“Good. We'll send Penelope to act as ambassador,” said her ladyship. “She seems to be on friendly terms with the enemy.”

“To act as ambassador from Cowardice Court?” questioned Penelope, loftily, yet with cutting significance. “No, I thank you. I decline the honour. Besides,” with a reflective frown, “I don't believe it is diplomacy he's after.”

“I say what the deuce do you suppose the confounded savage has in mind?” exclaimed the duke. “I 'Ve heard of the way these cowboys settle their affairs. You don't imagine—” and he paused significantly.

“It looks like it's going to be a da—rather disagreeable affair,” said De Peyton sourly.

“Good heavens, what are we to do if he comes here with a lot of desperadoes and begins to shoot?” cried Mrs. Odwell, genuinely alarmed. “I've read so much of these awful mountain feuds.”

“Don't be alarmed. Lord Bazelhurst will attend to the gentleman,” said Lady Evelyn blandly. His lordship's monocle clattered down and the ice rattled sharply in his glass. “To—to be sure,” he agreed. “Don't be in the least worried. I 'll attend to the upstart. What time's he coming, Pen?” A door banged noisily near by, and every one jumped as though a gun had been fired. While the “ohs” were still struggling from their lips, Hodder, the butler, came into the room, doing his best to retain his composure under what seemed to be trying circumstances. “What is it, Hodder?” demanded her ladyship.

“The cook, your ladyship. She's fallen downstairs and broken her leg,” announced Hodder. He did not betray it, but he must have been tremendously surprised by the sigh of relief that went up on all sides. Lord Bazelhurst went so far as to laugh.

“Ha, ha! is that all?”

“Oh, dear, I'm so glad!” cried Miss Folsom, impulsively. “I was frightened half to death. It might have been Mr.—”

“Don't be silly, Rose,” said Lady Bazelhurst. “Where is she, Hodder?”

“In the laundry, your ladyship. There are two fractures.”

“By Jove, two legs instead of one, then—worse than I thought,” cried Bazelhurst, draining his glass.

“Send at once for a doctor, Hodder, and take her to her room. Is n't it annoying,” said her ladyship. “It's so difficult to keep a cook in the mountains.”

“Don't see how she can get away without legs,” observed De Peyton.

“I'll come with you, Hodder. Perhaps I can do something for her,” said Penelope, following the butler from the room.

“Don't take too many patients on your hands, my dear,” called the mistress, with a shrill laugh.

“Yes; remember to-morrow,” added the duke. Then, suddenly: “I believe I'll lend a hand.” He hurried after Penelope, rather actively for him.

Lord Bazelhurst visited his wife's room later in the night, called there by a more or les: peremptory summons. Cecil had been taking time by the forelock in anticipation of Shaw's descent in the morning and was inclined to jocundity.

“Cecil, what do you think of Penelope's attitude toward Mr. Shaw?” she asked, turning away from the window which looked out over the night in the direction of Shaw's place.

“I didn't know she had an attitude,” replied he, trying to focus his wavering gaze upon her.

“She meets him clandestinely and she supports him openly. Is n't that an attitude, or are you too drunk to see it?”

“My dear, remember you are speaking of my sister,” he said with fine dignity but little discrimination. “Besides, I am not too drunk. I do see it. It's a demmed annoying attitude. She 's a traitor, un'stand me? A traito-tor. I intend to speak to her about it.”

“It is better that you should do it,” said his wife. “I am afraid I could not control my temper.”

“Penelope's a disgrace—a nabsolute disgrace; now many legs did Hodder say—”

“Oh, you're disgusting!” cried Lady Evelyn. “Go to bed! I thought I could talk to you to-night, but I can't. You scarcely can stand up.”

“Now, Evelyn, you do me injustice. I'm only holding to this chair to keep it from moving 'round the room. See that? Course I c'n stan' up,” he cried, triumphantly.

“I am utterly disgusted with you. Oh, for a man! A man with real blood in his veins, a man who could do something besides eat and drink at my cost. I pay your debts, clothe you, feed you—house your ungrateful sister—and what do I get in return? This!”

Lord Bazelhurst's eyes steadied beneath this unexpected assault, his legs stiffened, his shoulders squared themselves in a pitiful attempt at dignity.

“Lady Bazelhurst, you—you—” and then he collapsed into the chair, bursting into maudlin tears. She stood over by the dressing-table and looked pitilessly upon the weak creature whose hiccoughing sobs filled the room. Her colour was high, her breathing heavy. In some way it seemed as though there was so much more she could have said had the circumstances been different.

There came a knock at the door, but she did not respond. Then the door opened quietly and Penelope entered the room, resolutely, fearlessly. Evelyn turned her eyes upon the intruder and stared for a moment.

“Did you knock?” she asked at last.

“Yes. You did not answer.”

“Was n't that sufficient?”

“Not to-night, Evelyn. I came to have it out with you and Cecil. Where is he?”

“There!”

“Asleep?” with a look of amazement.

“I hope not. I should dislike having to call the servants to carry him to his see. Poor old chap!” She went over and shook him by the shoulder. He sat up and stared at her blankly through his drenched eyes. Then, as if the occasion called for a supreme effort, he tried to rise, ashamed that his sister should have found him in his present condition. “Don't get up, Cecil. Wait a bit and I'll go to your—”

“What have you to say to me, Penelope,” demanded Evelyn, a green light in her eyes.

“It can wait. I prefer to have Cecil—understand,” she said, bitterly.

“If it 's about our affair with Shaw, it won't make any difference whether Cecil understands or not. Has your friend asked you to plead for him? Does he expect me to take him up on your account and have him here?”

“I was jesting when I said he would come to-morrow,” said Penelope, ignoring the thrust and hurrying to her subject. “I could n't go to sleep to-night if I neglected to tell you what I think of the outrage this morning. You and Cecil had no right to order Tompkins to shoot at Mr. Shaw. He is not a trespasser. Some one killed his dog to-day. When he pursued the coward, a second shot was fired at him. He was wounded. Do you call that fair fighting? Ambushed, shot from behind a tree. I don't care what you and Cecil think about it, I consider it despicable. Thank God, Cecil was not really to blame. It is about the only thing I can say to my brother's credit.”

Lady Bazelhurst was staring at her young sister-in-law with wide eyes. It was the first time in all her petted, vain life that any one had called her to account. She was, at first, too deeply amazed to resent the sharp attack.

“Penelope Drake!” was all she could say. Then the fury in her soul began to search for an outlet. “How dare you? How dare you?”

“I don't mean to hurt you, I am only telling you that your way of treating this affair is a mistake. It can be rectified. You don't want to be lawless; you don't understand what a narrow escape from murder you have had. Evelyn, you owe reparation to Mr. Shaw. He is—”

“I understand why you take his side. You cheapen and degrade yourself and you bring shame upon your brother and me by your disgraceful affair with this ruffian. Don't look shocked! You meet him secretly, I know—how much farther you have gone with him I don't know. It is enough that you—”

“Stop! You shall not say such things to me!”

“You came in here to have it out with me. Weil, we'll have it out. You think because you're English, and all that, that you are better than I. You show it in your every action; you turn up your nose at me because I am an American. Well, what if I am? Where would you be if it were not for me? And where would he be? You'd starve if it were not for me. You hang to me like a leech—you sponge on me, you gorge yourself—”

“That is enough, Evelyn. You have said all that is necessary. I deserve it, too, for meddling in your affairs. It may satisfy you to know that I have always despised you. Having confessed, I can only add that we cannot live another hour under the same roof. You need not order me to go. I shall do so of my own accord—gladly.” Penelope turned to the door. She was as cold as ice.

“It is the first time you have ever done anything to please me. You may go in the morning.”

“I shall go to-night!”

“As you like. It is near morning. Where do you expect to go at this hour of night?”

“I am not afraid of the night. Tomorrow I shall send over from the village for my trunks.” She paused near the door and then came back to Cecil's side. “Goodbye, Cecil. I'll write. Good-bye.” He looked up with a hazy smile.

“G'night,” he muttered thickly.

Without another word or so much as a glance at Lady Bazelhurst, Penelope Drake went swiftly from the room. The big hall clock struck the half-hour after eleven. Some one—a woman—was laughing in the billiard-room below; the click of the balls came to her ears like the snapping of angry teeth. She did not hesitate; it was not in her nature. The room in which she had found so much delight was now loathsome to her. With nervous fingers she threw the small things she most cherished into a bag,—her purse, her jewels, her little treasures. Somehow it seemed to her as if she were hurrying to catch a night train, that was all. With her own strong young arms she dragged the two huge trunks from the closet. Half an hour later they were full and locked. Then she looked about with a dry, mirthless smile.

“I wonder where I am to go?” she murmured, half aloud. A momentary feeling of indecision attacked her. The click of the balls had ceased, the clock had struck twelve. It was dark and still, and the wind was crying in the trees.

“She won't go,” Lady Bazelhurst was saying to herself, as she sat, narrow-eyed and hateful, in her window looking out into the night. “Life is too easy here.” The light from the porch lanterns cast a feeble glow out beyond the porte-cochÈre and down the drive. As she stared across the circle, the figure of a woman suddenly cut a diametric line through it, and lost itself in the wall of blackness that formed the circumference. Lady Evelyn started and stared unbelievingly into the darkness, striving to penetrate it with her gaze. “It was she—Penelope,” she cried, coming to her feet. “She's really gone—she meant it.” For many minutes she peered out into the night, expecting to see the shadow returning. A touch of anxious hope possessing her, she left the window and hurried down the corridor to Penelope's room. What she found there was most convincing. It was not a trick of the lanterns. The shadow had been real. It must be confessed that the peevish heart of Lady Bazelhurst beat rather rapidly as she hastened back to the window to peer anxiously out into the sombre park with its hooting owls and chattering night-bugs. The mournful yelp of a distant dog floated across the black valley. The watcher shuddered as she recalled stories of panthers that had infested the great hills. A small feeling of shame and regret began to develop with annoying insistence.

An hour dragged itself by before she arose petulantly, half terrified, half annoyed in spite of herself. Her husband still was sitting in the big chair, his face in his hands. His small, dejected figure appealed to her pity for the first time in the two years of their association. She realized what her temper had compelled her to say to him and to his sister; she saw the insults that at least one of them had come to resent.

“I hope that foolish girl will come back,” she found herself saying, with a troubled look from the window. “Where can the poor thing go? What will become of her? What will everyone say when this becomes known?” she cried, with fresh selfishness. “I—I should not have let her go like this.”

Even as she reproached herself, a light broke in upon her understanding; a thought whirled into her brain and a moment later she knew where she could go! “How simple I am. Shaw will welcome her gladly. She's with him by this time—his doors have opened to her. The little wretch! And I've been trying so hard to pity her!” She laughed again so shrilly that his lordship stirred and then looked up at her stupefied, uncertain.

“Hullo,” he grunted. “What time is it?”

“Oh, you're awake, are you?” scornfully.

“Certainly. Have I been dozing? What's there to laugh at, my dear?” he mumbled, arising very unsteadily. “Where's Pen?”

“She's gone. She's left the house,” she said, recurring dread and anxiety in her voice. A glance at the darkness outside brought back the growing shudders.

“What—what d' ye mean?” demanded he, bracing up with a splendid effort.

“She's left the house, that's all. We quarrelled. I don't know where she's gone. Yes, I do know. She's gone to Shaw's for the night. She's with him. I saw her going,” she cried, striving between fear and anger.

“You 've—you've turned her out? Good Lord, why—why did you let her go?” He turned and rushed toward the door, tears springing to his eyes. He was sobering now and the tears were wrenched from his hurt pride. “How long ago?”

“An hour or more. She went of her own accord. You'll find her at Shaw's,” said her ladyship harshly. She hated to admit that she was to blame. But as her husband left the room, banging the door after him, she caught her breath several times in a futile effort to stay the sobs, and then broke down and cried, a very much abused young woman. She hated everybody and everything.