LADY BAZELHURST was right. Penelope was making her way through the blackest of nights toward the home of Randolph Shaw. In deciding upon this step, after long deliberation, she had said to herself: “Randolph Shaw is the only real man I 've seen since coming to the mountains. I can trust him to help me to-night.”

It was fully three miles to Shaw's place, most of the way over the narrow valley road. She knew she would encounter but few tortuous places. The last half-mile, however, was steep, rugged, and unfamiliar to her. She had ventured no nearer to his home than Renwood's deserted cottage, lying above and to the south of the road, almost at the base of the long hill on whose side Shaw had built his big home. To climb that hill was no easy task in daylight; at midnight, with the stars obscured by clouds and tree-tops, there was something perilously uncertain in the prospect.

Only the knowledge that patience and courage eventually would bring her to the end made the journey possible. Time would lead her to the haven; care would make the road a friend; a stout heart was her best ally. Strength of limb and strength of purpose she had, in use and in reserve. No power could have made her turn back willingly. Her anxious eyes were set ahead in the blackness; her runaway feet were eager in obedience to her will.

“Why couldn't I have put it off until morning?” she was saying to herself as she passed down the gravelled drive and advanced to meet the wall of trees that frowned blackly in her face. “What will he think? What will he say? Oh, he'll think I'm such a silly, romantic fool. No, he won't. He'll understand. He'll help me on to Platts-burg to-morrow. But will he think I've done this for effect? Won't he think I'm actually throwing myself at his head? No, I can't turn back. I'd rather die than go back to that house. It won't matter what he thinks; I'll be away from all of it tomorrow. I'll be out of his life and I won't care what he thinks. England! Goodness, what's that?” She had turned a bend in the drive and just ahead there was a light. A sigh of relief followed the question. It came from the lantern which hung to a stake in the road where the new stone gate-posts were being built by workmen from town. Bazelhurst Villa was a quarter of a mile, through the park, behind her; the forest was ahead.

At the gate she stopped between the half-finished stone posts and looked ahead with the first shiver of dismay. Her limbs seemed ready to collapse. The flush of anger and excitement left her face; a white, desolate look came in its stead. Her eyes grew wide and she blinked her lashes with an awed uncertainty that boded ill for the stability of her adventure. An owl hooted in mournful cadence close by and she felt that her hair was going straight on end. The tense fingers of one hand gripped the handle of the travelling-bag while the other went spasmodically to her heart.

“Oh!” she gasped, moving over quickly to the stake on which the lantern hung. The wind was rushing through the tree-tops with increased fervour; the air was cool and wet with the signs of rain; a swirl of dust flew up into her face; the swish of leaves sounded like the splashing of water in the air. Holding her heart for minutes, she at last regained some of the lost composure. A hysterical laugh fell from her lips. “What a goose! It was an owl and I've heard hundreds of them up here. Still, they do sound different outside of one's own room. It's going to rain. What wretched luck! Dear me, I can't stand here all night. How black it is ahead there. Oooh! Really, now, it does seem a bit terrifying. If I only had a lantern it would n't be so—” her gaze fell upon the labourers' lantern that clattered aimlessly, uselessly against the stake. An instant later she had jerked it from its fastenings with a cry of joy. “I'll send it back when they go for my trunks. What luck!”

Without a second's hesitation she started off briskly into the woodland road, striding along with the splendid swing of the healthy Englishwoman who has not been trained to dawdle. Her walking-skirt gave free play to her limbs; she was far past the well-known “line in the road” before she paused to take a full breath and to recapitulate.

Her heart beat faster and the sudden glow in her cheek was not from the exercise. Somehow, out there alone in the world, the most amazing feeling of tenderness sped on ahead to Randolph Shaw. She tried to put it from her, but it grew and grew. Then she blushed deep within herself and her eyes grew sweet with the memory of those stolen, reprehensible hours along the frontier. Something within her breast cried out for those shining, gone-by moments, something seemed to close down on her throat, something flooded her eyes with a softness that rolled up from her entire being. Their line! Their insurmountable barrier! An absurd yet ineffable longing to fall down and kiss that line came over her with compelling force.

Her head grew light with the thought of those moments when their horses stood with muzzles together as if kissing by proxy—the flush grew deeper, though her blood went cold and she trembled.

A pitiful confusion seized her, an inexplicable timidity crept into her heart, replacing the bold assurance that had been recklessly carrying her on to him. It was as though some one had whispered the truth into her ear and she was beginning to believe.

From that moment her courage began to fail. The glow from her lantern was a menace instead of a help. A sweet timorousness enveloped her and something tingled—she knew not what.

Spattering raindrops whizzed in her face, ominous forerunners from the inky sky. The wind was whistling with shrill glee in the tree-tops and the tree-tops tried to flee before it. A mile and a half lay between her and the big cottage on the hillside—the most arduous part of the journey by far. She walked and ran as though pursued, scudding over the road with a swiftness that would have amazed another, but which seemed the essence of slowness to her. Thoughts of robbers, tramps, wild beasts, assailed her with intermittent terrors, but all served to diminish the feeling of shyness that had been interfering with her determination.

Past Renwood's cottage she sped, shuddering as she recognized the stone steps and path that ran up the hillside to the haunted house. Ghosts, witches, hobgoblins fell into the procession of pursuers, cheered on by the shrieking wind that grew more noisome as her feet carried her higher up the mountain. Now she was on new ground. She had never before explored so far as this. The hill was steep and the road had black abysses out beyond its edges....

She was breathless, half dead from fatigue and terror when at last her feet stumbled up the broad steps leading to his porch. Trembling, she sank into the rustic bench that stood against the wall. The lantern clattered to her feet, and the bag with her jewels, her letter of credit, and her curling irons slid to the floor behind the bench. Here was his home! What cared she for the storm?

Even as she lay there gasping for breath, her eyes on the shadowy moon that was breaking its way through the clouds, three men raced from the stables at Bazelhurst Villa bent on finding the mad young person who had fled the place. Scarcely knowing what direction he took, Lord Bazelhurst led the way, followed by the duke and the count, all of them supplied with carriage lamps, which, at any other time, would have been sickening in their obtrusiveness. Except for Lady Evelyn, the rest of the house slept the sleep of ease.

Gradually Penelope recovered from the effects of the mad race up the hill. The sputtering flame in the lantern called her into action. Clutching it from the floor of the porch, she softly began a tour of inspection, first looking at her watch to find that it was the unholy hour of two! Had some one yelled boo! she would have swooned, so tense was every nerve. Now that she was here, what was she to do? Her heart came to her mouth, her hand shook, but not with fear; a nervous smile tried to wreak disaster to the concern in her eyes.

The house was dark and still. No one was stirring. The porch was littered with rugs and cushions, while on a small table near the end stood a decanter, a siphon, and two glasses. Two? He had said he was alone except for the housekeeper and the servants. A visitor, then. This was not what she had expected. Her heart sank. It would be hard to face the master of the house, but—a stranger? Cigarette stubs met her bewildered, troubled gaze—many of them. Deduction was easy out there in the lonely night. It was easy to see that Shaw and his companion sat up so late that the servants had gone to bed.

Distractedly she looked about for means of shelter on the porch until daylight could abet her in the flight to the village beyond.

The storm was sure to come at no far distant time. She knew and feared the violence of the mountain rains.

“By all that's holy,” came in a man's voice, low-toned and uncertain; “it is a dream, after all!”

She turned like a flash, with a startled exclamation and an instinctive movement as if to shield herself from unbidden gaze. Her lips parted and her heart pounded like a hammer. Standing in the doorway was Randolph Shaw, his figure looming up like monstrous, wavering genie in the uncertain light from the shaking lantern. His right hand was to his brow and his eyes were wide with incredulous joy. She noticed that the left sleeve of his dinner jacket hung limp, and that the arm was in a white sling beneath.

“Is it really you?” he cried, his hand going instinctively to his watch-pocket as if doubting that it was night instead of morning.

“I've—I 've run away from them,” she stammered. “It's two o'clock—don't look! Oh, I'm so sorry now—why did I—”

“You ran away?” he exclaimed, coming toward her. “Oh, it can't be a dream. You are there, aren't you?” She was a pitiable object as she stood there, powerless to retreat, shaking like a leaf. He took her by the shoulder. “Yes—it is. Good Lord, what does it mean? What has happened? How did you come here? Are you alone?”

“Utterly, miserably alone. Oh, Mr. Shaw!” she cried despairingly. “You will understand, won't you?”

“Never! Never as long as I live. It is beyond comprehension. The wonderful part of it all is that I was sitting in there dreaming of you—yes, I was. I heard some one out here, investigated and found you—you, of all people in the world. And I was dreaming that I held you in my arms. Yes, I was! I was dreaming it—”

“Mr. Shaw! You should n't—”

“And I awoke to find you—not in my arms, not in Bazelhurst Villa, but here—here on my porch.”

“Like a thief in the night,” she murmured. “What do you think of me?”

“Shall I tell you—really?” he cried. The light in his eyes drove her back a step or two, panic in her heart.

“N—no, no—not now!” she gasped, but a great wave of exaltation swept through her being. He turned and walked away, too dazed to speak. Without knowing it, she followed with hesitating steps. At the edge of the porch he paused and looked into the darkness.

“By Jove, I must be dreaming,” she heard him mutter.

“No, you are not,” she declared desperately. “I am here. I ask your protection for the night. I am going away—to England—to-morrow. I could n't stay there—I just could n't. I'm sorry I came here—I'm—”

“Thank heaven, you did come,” he exclaimed, turning to her joyously. “You are like a fairy—the fairy princess come true. It's unbelievable! But—but what was it you said about England?” he concluded, suddenly sober.

“I am go—going home. There's no place else. I can't live with her,” she said, a bit tremulously.

“To England? At once? Your father—will he—?”

“My father? I have no father. Oh!” with a sudden start Her eyes met his in a helpless stare. “I never thought. My home was at Bazelhurst Castle—their home. I can't go there. Good heavens, what am I to do?”

A long time afterward she recalled his exultant exclamation, checked at its outset,—recalled it with a perfect sense of understanding. With rare good taste he subdued whatever it was that might have struggled for expression and simply extended his right hand to relieve her of the lantern.

“We never have been enemies, Miss Drake,” he said, controlling his voice admirably. “But had we been so up to this very instant, I am sure I 'd surrender now. I don't know what has happened at the Villa. It does n't matter. You are here to ask my protection and my help. I am at your service, my home is yours, my right hand also. You are tired and wet and—nervous. Won't you come inside? I 'll get a light in a jiffy and Mrs. Ulrich, my housekeeper, shall be with you as soon as I can rout her out. Come in, please.” She held back doubtfully, a troubled, uncertain look in her eyes.

“You will understand, won't you?” she asked simply.

“And no questions asked,” he said from the doorway. Still she held back, her gaze going involuntarily to the glasses on the table. He interpreted the look of inquiry. “There were two of us. The doctor was here picking out the shot, that 's all. He 's gone. It's all right. Wait here and I'll get a light.” The flame in her lantern suddenly ended its feeble life.

She stood inside his doorway and heard him shuffle across the floor in search of the lamps.

“Dark as Egypt, eh?” he called out from the opposite side of the room.

“Not as dark as the forest, Mr. Shaw.”

“Good heavens, what a time you must have had. All alone, were you?”

“Of course. I was not eloping.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“Where were you sitting when I came up?”

“Here—in the dark. I was waiting for the storm to come and dozed away, I daresay. I love a storm, don't you?”

“Yes, if I 'm indoors. Ah!” He had struck a match and was lighting the wick of a lamp beside the huge fireplace. “I suppose you think I 'm perfectly crazy. I 'm horrid.”

“Not at all. Sit down here on the couch, please. More cheerful, eh? Good Lord, listen to the wind. You got here just in time. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll have Mrs. Ulrich down in a minute. She'll take good care of you. And I 'll make you a nice hot drink, too. You need it.” In the door of the big living-room he turned to her, a look of extreme doubt in his eyes. “By Jove, I bet I do wake up. It can't be true.” She laughed plaintively and shook her head in humble self-abasement. “Don't be lonesome. I'll be back in a minute.”

“Don't hurry,” she murmured apologetically. Then she settled back limply in the wide couch and inspected the room, his footsteps noisily clattering down the long hallway to the left. She saw, with some misgiving, that it was purely a man's habitation. Shaw doubtless had built and furnished the big cottage without woman as a consideration. The room was large, comfortable, solid; there was not a suggestion of femininity in, it—high or low—except the general air of cleanliness. The furniture was rough-hewn and built for use, not ornamentation; the walls were hung with English prints, antlers, mementoes of the hunt and the field of sport; the floor was covered with skins and great “carpet rag” rugs. The whole aspect was so distinctly mannish that her heart fluttered ridiculously in its loneliness. Her cogitations were running seriously toward riot when he came hurriedly down the hall and into her presence.

“She'll be down presently. In fact, so will the cook and the housemaid. Gad, Miss Drake, they were so afraid of the storm that all of them piled into Mrs. Ulrich's room. I wonder at your courage in facing the symptoms outdoors. Now, I'll fix you a drink. Take off your hat—be comfortable. Cigarette? Good! Here's my sideboard. See? It's a nuisance, this having only one arm in commission; affects my style as a barkeep. Don't stir; I'll be able—”

“Let me help you. I mean, please don't go to so much trouble. Really I want nothing but a place to sleep to-night. This couch will do—honestly. And some one to call me at daybreak, so that I may be on my way.” He looked at her and laughed quizzically. “Oh, I'm in earnest, Mr. Shaw, I would not have stopped here if it had n't been tor the storm.”

“Come, now, Miss Drake, you spoil the fairy tale. You did intend to come here. It was the only place for you to go—and I'm glad of it. My only regret is that the house is n't filled with chaperons.”

“Why?” she demanded with a guilty start.

“Because I could then say to you all the things that are in my heart—aye, that are almost bursting from my lips. I—I can't say them now, you know,” he said, and she understood his delicacy. For some minutes she sat in silence watching him as he clumsily mixed the drinks and put the water over the alcohol blaze. Suddenly he turned to her with something like alarm in his voice. “By George, you don't suppose they 'll pursue you?”

“Oh, would n't that be jolly? It would be like the real story-book—the fairy and the ogres and all that. But,” dubiously, “I'm sorely afraid they consider me rubbish. Still—” looking up encouragingly—“my brother would try to find me if he—if he knew that I was gone.”

To her surprise, he whistled softly and permitted a frown of anxiety to creep over his face. “I had n't thought of that,” he observed reflectively. Then he seemed to throw off the momentary symptoms of uneasiness, adding, with a laugh: “I daresay nothing will happen. The storm would put a stop to all idea of pursuit.”

“Let them pursue,” she said, a stubborn light in her eyes. “I am my own mistress, Mr. Shaw. They can't take me, willy nilly, as if I were a child, you know.”