The count was not thoroughly awake until he found himself in the saddle some time later; it is certain that he did not know until long afterward why they were riding off into the storm. He fell so far behind his companions in the run down the road that he could ask no questions. Right bravely the trio plunged into the dark territory over which the enemy ruled. It was the duke who finally brought the cavalcade to a halt by propounding a most sensible question.

“Are you sure she came this way, Cecil?”

“Certainly. This is Shaw's way, is n't it?”

“Did she say she was going to Shaw's?”

“Don't know. Evelyn told me. Hang it all, Barminster, come along. We'll never catch up to her.”

“Is she riding?”

“No—horses all in.”

“Do you know, we may have passed her. Deuce take it, Bazelhurst, if she's running away from us, you don't imagine she'd be such a silly fool as to stand in the road and wait for us. If she heard us she'd hide among the trees.”

“But she's had an hour's start of us.”

“Where ees she coming to?” asked the count, with an anxious glance upward just in time to catch a skirmishing raindrop with his eye.

“That's just it. We don't know,” said the duke.

“But I must find her,” cried Lord Cecil. “Think of that poor girl alone in this terrible place, storm coming up and all that. Hi, Penelope!” he shouted in his most vociferous treble. The shrieking wind replied. Then the three of them shouted her name. “Gad, she may be lost or dead or—Come on, Barminster. We must scour the whole demmed valley.”

They were off again, moving more cautiously while the duke threw the light from his lamp into the leafy shadows beside the roadway. The wind was blowing savagely down the slope and the raindrops were beginning to beat in their faces with ominous persistency. Some delay was caused by an accident to the rear-guard. A mighty gust of wind blew the count's hat far back over the travelled road. He was so much nearer Bazelhurst Villa when they found it that he would have kept on in that direction for the sake of his warm bed had not his companions talked so scornfully about cowardice.

“He's like a wildcat to-night,” said the duke in an aside to the little Frenchman, referring to his lordship. “Demme, I 'd rather not cross him. You seem to forget that his sister is out in all this fury.”

“Mon Dieu, but I do not forget. I would gif half my life to hold her in my arms thees eenstan'.”

Dem you, sir, I'd give her the other half if you dared try such a thing. We did n't fetch you along to hold her. You've got to hold the horses, that's all.

“Diable! How dare you to speak to—”

“What are you two rowing about?” demanded his lordship. “Come along! We're losing time. Sit on your hat, Deveaux.” Away they swept, Penelope's two admirers wrathfully barking at one another about satisfaction at some future hour.

The storm burst upon them in all its fury—the maddest, wildest storm they had known in all their lives. Terrified, half drowned, blown almost from the saddles, the trio finally found shelter in the lee of a shelving cliff just off the road. While they stood there shivering, clutching the bits of their well-nigh frantic horses, the glimmer by of lights came down to them from windows farther up the steep. There was no mistaking the three upright oblongs of light; they were tall windows in a house, the occupants of which doubtless had been aroused at this unearthly hour by the fierceness of the storm.

“By Jove,” lamented the duke, water running down his neck in floods. “What a luxury a home is, be it ever so humble, on a night like this.”

“Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu!” groaned the count. “How comfortab' zey look. And here? Eh bien! Qui fait trembler la terre! I am seeck! I die!”

“Penelope is out in all this,” moaned his lordship.

“I am not so sure of that. Trust a woman to find a place where she can't ruin her hat. My word for it, Cecil, she's found a safe roost. I say, by Jove!” The duke was staring more intently than ever at the windows far above. “I have it! Is n't it rather odd that a house should be lighted so brilliantly at this hour of night?”

“Demmed servants forgot to put out the lamps,” groaned Bazelhurst without interest. “Nonsense! I tell you what: some one has roused the house and asked shelter from the storm. Now, who could that be but Penelope?”

“By Jove, you're a ripping clever ass, after all, Barminster—a regular Sherlock Holmes. That's just it! She's up there where the windows are. Come on! It's easy sailing now,” cried his lordship, but the duke restrained him.

“Don't rush off like a fool. Whose house is it?”

“How the devil do I know? This is Shaw's land, and he has n't been especially cordial about—”

“Aha! See what I mean? Shaw's land, to be sure. Well, hang your stupidity, don't you know we're looking at Shaw's house this very instant? He lives there and she's arrived, dem it all. She's up there with him—dry clothes, hot drinks and all that, and we're out here catching pneumonia. Fine, is n't it?”

“Gad! You're right! She's with that confounded villain. My God, what's to become of her?” groaned Lord Cecil ting down suddenly and covering his with his hands.

“We must rescue her!” shouted the duke

“Brace up, Cecil! Don't be a baby. We'll storm the place.”

“Not in zis rain!” cried the count.

“You stay here in the shade and hold the horses, that 's what you do,” said the duke scornfully.

A council of war was held. From their partially sheltered position the invaders could see, by the flashes of lightning, that a path and some steps ascended the hill. The duke was for storming the house at once, but Lord Cecil argued that it would be foolish to start before the storm abated. Moreover, he explained, it would be the height of folly to attack the house until they were sure that Penelope was on the inside.

After many minutes there came a break in the violence of the storm and preparations were at once made for the climb up the hill. Deveaux was to remain behind in charge of the horses. With their bridle reins in his hands he cheerfully maintained this position of trust, securely sheltered from the full force of the elements. Right bravely did the duke and his lordship venture forth into the spattering rain. They had gone no more than three rods up the path when they were brought to a halt by the sounds of a prodigious struggle behind them. There was a great trampling of horses' hoofs, accompanied by the frantic shouts of the count.

“I cannot hold zem! Mon Dieu! Zey are mad! Ho! Ho! Help!”

He was in truth having a monstrous unpleasant time. His two friends stumbled to his assistance, but not in time to prevent the catastrophe. The three horses had taken it into their heads to bolt for home; they were plunging and pulling in three directions at the same time, the count manfully clinging to the bridle reins, in great danger of being suddenly and shockingly dismembered.

“Hold to 'em!” shouted Lord Cecil.

“Help!” shouted the count, at the same moment releasing his grip on the reins. Away tore the horses, kicking great chunks of mud over him as he tumbled aimlessly into the underbrush. Down the road clattered the animals, leaving the trio marooned in the wilderness. Groaning and half dead, the unfortunate count was dragged from the brush by his furious companions. What the duke said to him was sufficient without being repeated, here or elsewhere. The count challenged him as they all resumed the march up the hill to visit the house with the lighted windows.

“Here is my card, m'sieur,” he grated furiously.

“Demme, I know you!” roared the duke. “Keep your card and we'll send it in to announce our arrival to Shaw.”

In due course of time, after many slips and falls, they reached the front yard of the house on the hillside. It was still raining lightly; the thunder and lightning were crashing away noisily farther up the valley. Cautiously they approached through the weeds and brush.

“By Jove!” exclaimed his lordship, coming to a standstill. He turned the light of his lantern toward the front elevation of the house. “Every door and window, except these three, are boarded up. It can't be Shaw's home.”

“That's right, old chap. Deuced queer, eh? I say, Deveaux, step up and pound on the door. You've got a card, you know.”

“Que diable!” exclaimed the count, sinking into the background.

“We might reconnoitre a bit,” said Bazelhurst.

“Have a look at the rear, you know.”

Around the corner of the house they trailed, finally bringing up at the back steps. The windows were not only dark but boarded up. While they stood there amazed and uncertain, the rain came down again in torrents, worse than before if possible. They scampered for cover, plunging three abreast beneath the same steps that had sheltered Penelope and Shaw such a short time before.

“Ouch! Get off my foot!” roared the duke. “Zounds! Who are you punching, demme! Hullo! What's this? A door and open, as I live.” The trio entered the cellar door without ceremony. “Thank God, we're out of the rain, at least.”

It was not until they had explored the basement and found it utterly without signs of human occupancy that the truth of the situation began to dawn upon them. Barminster's face was white and his voice shook as he ventured the horrid speculation:

“The good Lord save us—it's that demmed haunted house Pen was talking about!”

“But ze lights?” queried the count.

“Ghosts!”

“Let's get out of this place,” said Lord Bazelhurst, moving toward the door. “It's that beastly Renwood house. They say he comes back and murders her every night or so.”

“Mon Dieu!”

“Penelope is n't here. Let's move on,” agreed the duke readily. But even fear of the supernatural was not strong, enough to drive them out into the blinding storm. “I say! Look ahead there. By Harry, there's Shaw's place.”

Peering through the door they saw for the first time the many lights in Shaw's windows, scarce a quarter of a mile away. For a long time they stood and gazed at the distant windows. Dejectedly they sat down, backs to the wall, and waited for the storm to spend its fury. Wet, cold, and tired, they finally dozed. It was Lord Cecil who first saw the signs of dawn. The rain storm had come to a mysterious end, but a heavy fog in its stead loomed up. He aroused his companions and with many groans of anguish they prepared to venture forth into the white wall beyond.

Just as they were taking a last look about the wretched cellar something happened that would have brought terror to the stoutest heart. A wild, appalling shriek came from somewhere above, the cry of a mortal soul in agony.

The next instant three human forms shot through the narrow door and out into the fog, hair on end, eyes bulging but sightless, legs travelling like the wind and as purposeless. It mattered not that the way was hidden; it mattered less that weeds, brush, and stumps lurked in ambush for unwary feet. They fled into the foggy dangers without a thought of what lay before them—only of what stalked behind them.

Upstairs Randolph Shaw lay back against the wall and shook with laughter. Penelope's convulsed face was glued to the kitchen window, her eyes peering into the fog beyond. Shadowy figures leaped into the white mantle; the crash of brush came back to her ears, and then, like the barking of a dog, there arose from the mystic gray the fast diminishing cry:

“Help! Help! Help!” Growing fainter and sharper the cry at last was lost in the phantom desert.

They stood at the window and watched the fog lift, gray and forbidding, until the trees and road were discernible. Then, arm in arm, they set forth across the wet way toward Shaw's cottage. The mists cleared as they walked along, the sun peeped through the hills as if afraid to look upon the devastation of the night; all the world seemed at peace once more.

“Poor Cecil!” she sighed. “It was cruel of you.” In the roadway they found a hat which she at once identified as the count's. Farther on there was a carriage lamp, and later a mackintosh which had been cast aside as an impediment. “Oh, it was cruel!” She smiled, however, in retrospection.

An hour later they stood together on the broad porch, looking out over the green, glistening hills. The warm fresh air filled their lungs and happiness was overcrowding their hearts. In every direction were signs of the storm's fury. Great trees lay blasted, limbs and branches were scattered over the ground, wide fissures split the roadway across which the deluge had rushed on its way down the slope.

But Penelope was warm and dry and safe after her thrilling night. A hot breakfast wat being prepared for them; trouble seemed to have gone its way with the elements.

“If I were only sure that nothing serious had happened to Cecil,” she murmured anxiously.

“I'm sorry, dear, for that screech of mine,” he apologized.

Suddenly he started and gazed intently in the direction of the haunted house. A man—a sorry figure—was slowly, painfully approaching from the edge of the wood scarce a hundred yards away. In his hand he carried a stick to which was attached a white cloth—doubtless a handkerchief. He was hatless and limped perceptibly. The two on the porch watched his approach in amazed silence.

“It's Cecil!” whispered Penelope in horror-struck tones. “Good heaven, Randolph, go to him! He is hurt.”

It was Lord Bazelhurst. As Shaw hurried down the drive to meet him, no thought of the feud in mind, two beings even more hopelessly dilapidated ventured from the wood and hobbled up behind the truce-bearer, who had now paused to lift his shoulders into a position of dignity and defiance. Shaw's heart was touched. The spectacle was enough to melt the prejudice of any adversary. Lord Cecil's knees trembled; his hand shook as if in a chill. Mud-covered, water-soaked, and bruised, their clothes rent in many places, their hats gone and their hair matted, their legs wobbly, the trio certainly inspired pity, not mirth nor scorn.

“One moment, sir,” called his lordship, with a feeble attempt at severity. His voice was hoarse and shaky. “We do not come as friends, dem you. Is my sister here?”

“She is, Lord Bazelhurst. We 'll talk this over later on,” said Shaw in his friendliest way. “You are worn out and done up, I'm sure—you and your friends. Come! I'm not as bad as you think. I've changed my mind since I saw you last. Let's see if we can't come to an amicable understanding. Miss Drake is waiting up there. Breakfast soon will be ready—hot coffee and all that. Permit me, gentlemen, to invite you to partake of what we have. What say you?”

“Confound you, sir, I—I—” but his brave effort failed him. He staggered and would have fallen had not the duke caught him from behind.

“Thanks, old chap,” said Barminster to Shaw. “We will come in for a moment. I say, perhaps you could give us a dry dud or two. Bazelhurst is in a bad way and so is the count. It was a devil of a storm.”

“Mon Dieu! c Était Épouvantable!” groaned the count

Penelope came down from the porch to meet them. Without a word she took her brother's arm. He stared at her with growing resentment.

“Dem it all, Pen,” he chattered, “you're not at all wet, are you? Look at me! All on your account, too.”

“Dear old Cecil! All on Evelyn's account, you mean,” she said softly, wistfully.

“I shall have an understanding with her when we get home,” he said earnestly.

“No,” said Shaw from the other side; “she shan't.”

“By Jove, Shaw, are you with me?” demanded his lordship in surprise.

“Depends on whether you are with me,” said the other. Penelope flushed warmly.

Later on, three chastened but ludicrous objects shuffled into the breakfast-room, where Shaw and Penelope awaited them. In passing, it is only necessary to say that Randolph Shaw's clothes did not fit.

“She shan't treat my sister like this again.”

Bazelhurst was utterly lost in the folds of a gray tweed, while the count was obliged to roll up the sleeves and legs of a frock suit which fitted Shaw rather too snugly. The duke, larger than the others, was passably fair in an old swallow-tail coat and brown trousers. They were clean, but there was a strong odour of arnica about them. Each wore, besides, an uncertain, sheepish smile.

Hot coffee, chops, griddle cakes, and maple syrup soon put the contending forces at their ease. Bazelhurst so far forgot himself as to laugh amiably at his host's jokes. The count responded in his most piquant dialect, and the duke swore by an ever-useful Lord Harry that he had never tasted such a breakfast.

“By Jove, Pen,” exclaimed her brother, in rare good humour, “it's almost a sin to take you away from such good cooking as this.”

“You're not going to take her away, however,” said Shaw. “She has come to stay.”

There was a stony silence. Coffee-cups hung suspended in the journey to mouths, and three pairs of eyes stared blankly at the smiling speaker.

“What—what the devil do you mean, sir?” demanded Lord Cecil, his coffee-cup shaking so violently that the contents overflowed.

“She's going over to Plattsburg with me to-day, and when she comes back she will be Mrs. Randolph Shaw. That's what I mean, your lordship.”

Three of his listeners choked with amazement and then coughed painfully. Feebly they set their cups down and gulped as if they had something to swallow. The duke was the first to find his tongue, and he was quite at a loss for words.

“B—by Jove,” he said blankly, “that's demmed hot coffee!”

“Is this true, Penelope?” gasped his lordship.

“Yes, Cecil. I've promised to marry him.”

“Good God! It is n't because you feel that you have no home with me?”

“I love him. It's a much older story than you think,” she said simply.

“I say, that hits me hard,” said the duke, with a wry face. “Still, I join in saying God bless you.”

“We're trying to end the feud, you see,” said Penelope.

Tears came into his lordship's pale eyes. He looked first at one and then at the other, and then silently extended his hand to Randolph Shaw. He wrung it vigorously for a long time before speaking. Then, as if throwing a weight off his mind, he remarked: “I say, Shaw, I 'm sorry about that dog. I 've got an English bull-terrier down there that's taken a ribbon or so. If you don't mind, I'll send him up to you. He—he knows Penelope.”