"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, blase,

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 ardor 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 wouldn'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 Hector'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 a while 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 say 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. "But that doesn't help matters. He had been on my land

again and again, Tompkins says, and Tompkins ought to know."

"And James, too," said the duke with a brandied roar.

"Can't Tompkins and his men keep that man off my land?" demanded Lady

Bazelhurst. 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 doesn'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 her eyes. "I

love a big dog. He is your best friend, I'll wager.'

"'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 color 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 in

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've winged me, too. Oh, God, if I only had been armed. There

_would_ have been a killing!"

"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 couldn'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 heavens,

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 isn't

any more to tell. I don't know who fired the shots. I couldn'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 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 isn'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 wouldn't. We are friends,

after all. I thought it was playing at war--and I can't tell you how

shocked I am."

"Poor old Bonaparte!" was all he said in reply. She stooped and laid

her hand on the fast-chilling coat of the dog. There were tears in

her eyes as she arose and turned away, moving toward her horse. Shaw

deliberately lifted the dead animal into his arms and strode off

toward his own land. She followed after a moment of indecision,

leading the horse. Across the line he went and up the side of the

knoll to his right. At the foot of a great tree he tenderly deposited

his burden. Then he turned to find her almost beside him.

"You won't mind my coming over here, will you?" she asked softly.

He reached out and clasped her hand, thoughtlessly, with his

blood-covered fingers. It was not until long afterward that she

discovered his blood upon the hand from which she had drawn her riding

glove.

"_You_ are always welcome" he said. "I am going to bury him here this

afternoon. No, please don't come. I'll bring the men down to help me.

I suppose they think I'm a coward and a bounder over at your place. Do

you remember the challenge you gave me yesterday? You dared me to come

over the line as far into Bazelhurst land as you had come into mine.

Well, I dared last night."

"You dared? You came?"

"Yes, and I went farther than you have gone, because I thought it was

play, comedy, fun. I even sat upon your gallery, just outside the

billiard-room--and smoked two cigarettes. You'll find the stubs on the

porch railing if her ladyship's servants are not too exemplary." She

was looking at him in wide-eyed unbelief. "I was there when you came

out on the lawn with the Frenchman."

"Did you hear what he was--what we were saying?" she asked, nervously

and going pale.

"No. I was not eavesdropping. Besides, you returned to the house very

abruptly, if you remember."

"Yes, I remember," she said, a sigh of relief accompanying the warm

glow that came to her cheek. "But were you not afraid of being

discovered? How imprudent of you!"

"It was a bit risky, but I rather enjoyed it. The count spoke to me as

I left the place. It was dark and he mistook me for one of your party.

I couldn't wait to see if you returned to renew the tête-à-tête--"

"I did not return," she said. It was his turn to be relieved.

CHAPTER IV

IN WHICH THE TRUTH TRESPASSES

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 afterward 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.

"Couldn'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 wasn'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 isn'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 didn'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 end 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 humor. 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. My. 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 honor. 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 he 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. Isn'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 less 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. Isn'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--an absolute disgrace. How many legs did Hodder

say she'd--she'd broken?"

"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 color 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."

"Wasn'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 room."

"I 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 room

with you."

"What have you to say to me, Penelope?" demanded Evelyn, a green light

in her eyes.

"I 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 couldn'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. Well, 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. To-morrow I shall send over from the

village for my trunks." She paused near the door and then came back to

Cecil's side. "Good-bye, 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 a

shrill, angry, hysterical laugh came from her lips.

"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?" gasped Lord Bazelhurst, numbly. "In

the night? 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.

CHAPTER V

IN WHICH DAN CUPID TRESPASSES

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 Plattsburg

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 to-morrow. I'll he 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 fervor; 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 wouldn't

be so--" her gaze fell upon the laborers' lantern that clattered

aimlessly, uselessly against the stake. An instant later she had

jerked it from its fastening 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 _isn't_ 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 a 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 _you_. 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 shouldn'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

couldn't stay there--I just couldn't. I'm sorry I came here--I'm--"

"Thank haven, 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 doesn'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 he 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 wouldn't have stopped here if it hadn't been for

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 isn'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, wouldn'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 hadn'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."

"That's quite true. You don't understand," he said slowly, his back to

her.

"You mean the law? Is it different from ours?"

"Not that. The--er--situation. You see, they might think it a trifle

odd if they found you here--with me. Don't you understand?" He turned

to her with a very serious expression. She started and sat bolt

upright to stare at him comprehensively.

"You mean--it--it isn't quite--er--"

"Regular, perhaps," he supplied "Please keep your seat! I'm not the

censor; I'm not even an opinion. Believe me, Miss Drake, my only

thought was and is for your good."

"I see. They would believe evil of me if they knew I had come to you,"

she mused, turning quite cold.

"I know the kind of people your sister-in-law has at her place, Miss

Drake. Their sort can see but one motive in anything--You know them,

too, I daresay."

"Yes, I know them," she said uneasily. "Good heavens, what a fool I've

been," she added, starting to her feet. "I might have known they'll

say all sorts of terrible things. They must not find me here. Mr.

Shaw, I'm--I am so ashamed--I wonder what you are thinking of me." Her

lip trembled and there was such a pleading look in her dark eyes that

he controlled himself with difficulty. It was only by imposing the

severest restraint upon his susceptibilities that he was able to

approach her calmly.

"I can't tell you now--not here--what I am thinking. It isn't the

place. Maybe--maybe you can read my thought, Penel--Miss Drake. Look

up, please. Can't you read--oh, there now--I beg your pardon! You come

to me for protection and I--well, don't be too hard on me just yet.

I'll find the time and place to tell you." He drew away almost as

his hand was ready to clasp hers--all because her sweet eyes met his

trustingly--he could have sworn--lovingly.

"Just now I am a poor little reprobate," she sighed ever so miserably.

"You are very good. I'll not forget."

"I'll not permit you to forget," he said eagerly.

"Isn't the housekeeper a long time in coming?" she asked quickly. He

laughed contentedly.

"We've no reason to worry about her. It's the pursuers from Bazelhurst

that should trouble us. Won't you tell me the whole story?" And she

told him everything, sitting there beside him with a hot drink in her

hand and a growing shame in her heart. It was dawning upon her with

alarming force that she was exposing a hitherto unknown incentive. It

was not a comfortable awakening. "And you champion me to that extent?"

he cried joyously. She nodded bravely and went on.

"So here I am," she said in conclusion. "I really could not have

walked to Ridgely to-night, could I?"

"I should say not."

"And there was really nowhere else to come but here?" dubiously.

"See that light over there--up the mountain?" he asked, leading her

to a window. "Old man Grimes and his wife live up there. They keep a

light burning all night to scare Renwood's ghost away. By Jove, the

storm will be upon us in a minute. I thought it had blown around us."

The roll of thunder came up the valley. "Thank heaven, you're safe

indoors. Let them pursue if they like. I'll hide you if they come, and

the servants are close-mouthed."

"I don't like the way you put it, Mr. Shaw."

"Hullo, hullo--the house," came a shout from the wind-ridden night

outside. Two hearts inside stopped beating for a second or two. She

caught her breath sharply as she clasped his arm.

"They are after me!" she gasped.

"They must not find you here. Really, Miss Drake, I mean it. They

wouldn't understand. Come with me. Go down this hall quickly. It leads

to the garden back of the house. There's a gun-room at the end of the

hall. Go in there, to your right. Here, take this! It's an electric

saddle-lantern. I'll head these fellows off. They shan't find you.

Don't be alarmed."

She sped down the narrow hall and he, taking time to slip into a long

dressing-coat, stepped out upon the porch in response to the now

prolonged and impatient shouts.

"Who's there?" he shouted. The light from the windows revealed several

horsemen in the roadway.

"Friends," came back through the wind. "Let us in out of the storm.

It's a terror."

"I don't know you." There was a shout of laughter and some profanity.

"Oh, yes, you do, Mr. Shaw. Open up and let us in. It's Dave Bank and

Ed Hunter. We can't make the cabin before the rain." Shaw could see

their faces now and then by the flashes of lightning and he recognized

the two woodsmen, who doubtless had been visiting sweethearts up

toward Ridgely.

"Take your horses to the stable, boys, and come in," he called,

laughing heartily. Then he hurried off to the gun-room. He passed Mrs.

Ulrich coming downstairs yawning prodigiously; he called to her to

wait for him in the library.

There was no one in the gun-room; the door leading to the back porch

was open. With an exclamation he leaped outside and looked about him.

"Good heavens!" he cried, staggering back.

Far off in the night, a hundred yards or more up the road, leading

to Grimes' cabin he saw the wobbling, uncertain flicker of a light

wending its way like a will-o'-the-wisp through the night. Without

a moment's hesitation and with something strangely like an oath, he

rushed into the house, almost upsetting the housekeeper in his haste.

"Visitors outside. Make 'em comfortable. Back soon," he jerked out as

he changed his coat with small respect for his injured arm. Then he

clutched a couple of rain-coats from the rack and flew out of the back

door like a man suddenly gone mad.

CHAPTER VI

IN WHICH A GHOST TRESPASSES

The impulse which drove Penelope out for the second time that night

may he readily appreciated. Its foundation was fear; its subordinate

emotions were shame, self-pity and consciousness of her real feeling

toward the man of the house. The true spirit of womanhood revolted

with its usual waywardness.

She was flying down the stony road, some distance from the cottage,

in the very face of the coming tornado, her heart beating like a

trip-hammer, her eyes bent on the little light up the mountain-side,

before it occurred to her that this last flight was not only senseless

but perilous. She even laughed at herself for a fool as she recalled

the tell-tale handbag on the porch and the damning presence of a

Bazelhurst lantern in the hallway.

The storm which had been raging farther down the valley was at

last whirling up to the hill-tops, long delayed as if in gleeful

anticipation of catching her alone and unprotected. The little

electric saddle-lamp that she carried gave out a feeble glow, scarce

opening the way in the darkness more than ten feet ahead. Rough and

irksome was the road, most stubborn the wall of wind. The second

threat of the storm was more terrifying than the first; at any instant

it was likely to break forth in all its slashing fury--and she knew

not whither she went.

Even as she lost heart and was ready to turn wildly back in an effort

to reach Shaw's home before the deluge, the lightning flashes revealed

to her the presence of a dwelling just off the road not two hundred

feet ahead. She stumbled forward, crying like a frightened child.

There were no lights. The house looked dark, bleak, unfriendly.

Farther up the hillside still gleamed the little light that was meant

to keep Renwood's ghost from disturbing the slumbers of old man Grimes

and his wife. She could not reach that light, that much she knew.

Her feet were like hundredweights, her limbs almost devoid of power;

Grimes' hut appeared to be a couple of miles away. With a last,

breathless effort, she turned off the road and floundered through

weeds and brush until she came to what proved to be the rear of the

darkened house. Long, low, rangy it reached off into the shadows,

chilling in its loneliness. There was no time left for her to climb

the flight of steps and pound on the back door. The rain was swishing

in the trees with a hiss that forbade delay.

She threw herself, panting and terror-stricken, into the cave-like

opening under the porch, her knees giving way after the supreme

effort. The great storm broke as she crouched far back against the

wall; her hands over her ears, her eyes tightly closed. She was safe

from wind and rain, but not from the sounds of that awful conflict.

The lantern lay at her feet, sending its ray out into the storm with

the senseless fidelity of a beacon light.

"Penelope!" came a voice through the storm, and a second later a

man plunged into the recess, crashing against the wall beside her.

Something told her who it was, even before he dropped beside her and

threw his strong arm about her shoulders. The sound of the storm died

away as she buried her face on his shoulder and shivered so mightily

that he was alarmed. With her face burning, her blood tingling, she

lay there and wondered if the throbbing of her heart were not about to

kill her.

He was crying something into her ear--wild, incoherent words

that seemed to have the power to quiet the storm. And she was

responding--she knew that eager words were falling from her lips,

but she never knew what they were--responding with a fervor that was

overwhelming her with joy. Lips met again and again and there was no

thought of the night, of the feud, the escapade, the Renwood ghost--or

of aught save the two warm living human bodies that had found each

other.

The storm, swerving with the capricious mountain winds, suddenly swept

their refuge with sheets of water. Randolph Shaw threw the raincoats

over his companion and both laughed hysterically at their plight,

suddenly remembered.

"We can't stay here," he shouted.

"We can't go out into it," she cried. "Where are we?"

"Renwood's," he called back. Their position was untenable. He was

drenched; the raincoats protected her as she crouched back into the

most remote corner. Looking about he discovered a small door leading

to the cellar. It opened the instant he touched the latch. "Come,

quick," he cried, lifting her to her feet. "In here--stoop! I have the

light. This is the cellar. I'll have to break down a door leading to

the upper part of the house, but that will not be difficult. Here's an

axe or two. Good Lord, I'm soaked!"

"Whe--where are we going?" she gasped, as he drew her across the

earthern floor.

"Upstairs. It's comfortable up there." They were at the foot of the

narrow stairway. She held back.

"Never! It's the--the haunted house! I can't--Randolph."

"Pooh! Don't be afraid. I'm with you, dearest."

"I know," she gulped. "But you have only one arm. Oh, I can't!"

"It's all nonsense about ghosts. I've slept here twenty times,

Penelope. People have seen my light and my shadow, that's all. I'm a

pretty substantial ghost."

"Oh, dear! What a disappointment. And there are no spooks? Not even

Mrs. Renwood?"

"Of course she may come back, dear, but you'd hardly expect a

respectable lady spook to visit the place with me stopping here. Even

ghosts have regard for conventionalities. She _couldn't_--"

"How much more respectable than I," Penelope murmured plaintively.

"Forgive me," he implored.

"I would--only you are so wet."

The door above was locked, but Shaw swung the axe so vigorously that

any but a very strong-nerved ghost must have been frightened to death

once more.

"It's my house, you know," he explained from the top step. "There we

are! Come up, Penelope. The fort is yours."

She followed him into the hall above. In silence they walked along the

bare floors through empty rooms until at last he opened a door in what

proved to be the left wing. To her surprise, this room was comfortably

furnished. There were ashes in the big fireplace and there were lamps

which had been used recently--for they were filled with oil.

"Here's where I read sometimes," he explained. "I have slept on that

couch. Last winter I came up here to hunt. My cottage wasn't finished,

so I stayed here. I'll confess I've heard strange sounds--now, don't

shiver! Once or twice I've been a bit nervous, but I'm still alive,

you see." He lighted the wicks in the two big lamps while she looked

on with the chills creeping up and down her back. "I'll have a bully

fire in the fireplace in just a minute."

"Let me help you," she suggested, coming quite close to him with

uneasy glances over her shoulders.

Ten minutes later they were sitting before a roaring fire, quite

content even though there was a suggestion of amazed ghosts lurking in

the hallway behind them. No doubt old man Grimes and his wife, if they

awoke in the course of the night, groaned deep prayers in response

to the bright light from the windows of the haunted house. Shaw

and Penelope smiled securely as they listened to the howling storm

outside.

"Well, this _is_ trespassing," she said, beaming a happy smile upon

him.

"I shall be obliged to drive you out, alas," he said reflectively. "Do

you recall my vow? As long as you are a Bazelhurst, I must perforce

eject you."

"Not to-night!" she cried in mock dismay.

"But, as an alternative, you'll not be a Bazelhurst long," he went on

eagerly, suddenly taking her hands into his, forgetful of the wounded

left. "I'm going to try trespassing myself. To-morrow I'm going to see

your brother. It's regular, you know. I'm going to tell the head of

your clan that you are coming over to Shaw, heart and hand."

"Oh!" she exclaimed. "You--you--no, no! You must not do that!"

"But, my dear, you _are_ going to marry me."

"Yes--I--suppose so," she murmured helplessly. "That isn't what I

meant. I mean, it isn't necessary to ask Cecil. Ask me; I'll consent

for him."

Half an hour passed. Then he went to the window and looked out into

the storm.

"You _must_ lie down and get some sleep," he insisted, coming back

to her. "The storm's letting up, but we can't leave here for quite a

while. I'll sit up and watch. I'm too happy to sleep." She protested,

but her heavy eyes were his allies. Soon he sat alone before the fire;

she slept sound on the broad couch in the corner, a steamer rug across

her knees. A contented smile curved his lips as he gazed reflectively

into the flames. He was not thinking of Mrs. Renwood's amiable ghost.

How long she had been asleep, Penelope did not know. She awoke with a

start, her flesh creeping. A nameless dread came over her; she felt

that she was utterly alone and surrounded by horrors. It was a full

minute--a sickening hour, it seemed--before she realized that she was

in the room with the man she loved. Her frightened eyes caught sight

of him lying back in the chair before the dying fire in the chimney

place. The lights were low, the shadows gaunt and chill.

A terrified exclamation started to her lips. Her ears again caught the

sound of some one moving in the house--some alien visitor. There

was no mistaking the sound--the distant, sepulchral laugh and the

shuffling of feet, almost at the edge of the couch it seemed.

"Randolph!" she whispered hoarsely. The man in the chair did not move.

She threw off the blanket and came to a sitting posture on the side of

the couch, her fingers clutching the covering with tense horror. Again

the soft, rumbling laugh and the sound of footsteps on the stairway.

Like a flash she sped across the room and clutched frantically at

Randolph's shoulders. He awoke with an exclamation, staring bewildered

into the horrified face above.

"The--the ghost!" she gasped, her eyes glued upon the hall door. He

leaped to his feet and threw his arms about her.

"You've had a bad dream," he said. "What a beast I was to fall asleep.

Lord, you're frightened half out of your wits. Don't tremble so,

dearest. There's no ghost. Every one knows--"

"Listen--listen!" she whispered. Together they stood motionless,

almost breathless before the fire, the glow from which threw their

shadows across the room to meet the mysterious invader.

"Good Lord," he muttered, unwilling to believe his ears. "There _is_

some one in the house. I've--I've heard sounds here before, but not

like these." Distinctly to their startled ears came the low, subdued

murmur of a human voice and then unmistakable moans from the very

depth of the earth--from the grave, it seemed.

"Do you hear?" she whispered. "Oh, this dreadful place! Take me away,

Randolph, dear--"

"Don't be afraid," he said, drawing her close. "There's nothing

supernatural about those sounds. They come from lips as much alive as

ours. I'll investigate." He grabbed the heavy poker from the chimney

corner, and started toward the door. She followed close behind, his

assurance restoring in a measure the courage that had temporarily

deserted her.

In the hallway they paused to look out over the broad porch. The storm

had died away, sighing its own requiem in the misty tree-tops. Dawn

was not far away. A thick fog was rising to meet the first glance of

day. In surprise Shaw looked at his watch, her face at his shoulder.

It was after five o'clock.

"Ghosts turn in at midnight, dear," he said with a cheerful smile.

"They don't keep such hours as these."

"But who can it be? There are no tramps in the mountains," she

protested, glancing over her shoulder apprehensively.

"Listen! By Jove, that voice came from the cellar."

"And the lock is broken," she exclaimed. "But how silly of me! Ghosts

don't stop for locks."

"I'll drop the bolts just the same," he said, as they hurried down

the hallway. At the back stairs they stopped and listened for many

minutes. Not a sound came up to them from below. Softly he closed the

door and lowered two heavy bars into place. "If there's any one down

there they probably think they've heard spooks trotting around up

here."

"Really, it's quite thrilling, isn't it?" she whispered, in her

excitement.

"In any event, we're obliged to remain under cover until they depart,"

he said thoughtfully. "We can't be seen here dearest."

"No," she murmured, "not even though it is _our_ house."

They returned to the big room as softly as mice and he left her a

moment later to close the heavy window shutters on the porch. When

he returned there was a grim smile on his face and his voice shook a

little as he spoke.

"I've heard the voices again. They came from the laundry I think. The

Renwoods were downright Yankees, Penelope; I will swear that these

voices are amazingly English."

CHAPTER VII

IN WHICH THE AUTHOR TRESPASSES

This narrative has quite as much to do with the Bazelhurst side of the

controversy as it has with Shaw's. It is therefore but fair that the

heroic invasion by Lord Cecil should receive equal consideration from

the historian. Shaw's conquest of one member of the force opposing him

was scarcely the result of bravery; on the other hand Lord Cecil's

dash into the enemy's country was the very acme of intrepidity. Shaw

had victory fairly thrust upon him; Lord Bazelhurst had a thousand

obstacles to overcome before he could even so much as stand face to

face with the enemy. Hence the expedition that started off in the wake

of the deserter deserves more than passing mention.

Down the drive and out into the mountain road clattered the three

horsemen. Lady Bazelhurst, watching at the window casement, almost

swooned with amazement at the sight of them. The capes of their

mackintoshes seemed to flaunt a satirical farewell in her face; their

owners, following the light of the carriage lamps, swept from view

around a bend in the road.

His lordship had met the duke in the hall, some distance from that

nobleman's room, and, without observing Barminster's apparent

confusion, commanded him to join in the pursuit. Barminster explained

that he was going to see how the cook was resting; however, he would

go much farther to be of service to the runaway sister of his host.

"She's broken-hearted," half sobbed the brother.

"Yes," agreed the duke; "and what's a broken leg to a broken heart?

Penelope's heart, at that. Demme, I can't find the cook's room,

anyway."

"It's in the servants' wing," said Cecil, anxious to be off.

"To be sure. Stupid ass I am. I say, old chap, here's Deveaux's door.

Let's rout him out. We'll need some one to hold the horses if we have

to force our way into Shaw's house."

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, isn'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 didn'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 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 the 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! Isn'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 hasn'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, isn't it?"

"Gad! You're right! She's with that confounded villain. My God, what's

to become of her?" groaned Lord Cecil, sitting down suddenly and

covering his face 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 clashing 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 back-ground.

"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 isn'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

traveling 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 was 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. "She sha'n't treat my sister like this again."

"No," said Shaw from the other side; "she sha'n'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 the

gentlemen to whom they were loaned. 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 odor 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 humor, "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 isn'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."

THE CASE OF MRS. MAGNUS

BY BURTON E. STEVENSON

CHAPTER I

The position of confidential family adviser is not without its

drawbacks, and it was with a certain reluctance that I told the office

boy to show Mrs. Magnus in. For Mrs. Magnus was that _bête noire_

of the lawyer--a woman recently widowed, utterly without business

experience, and yet with a firm belief in her ability to manage her

husband's estate. If Mrs. Magnus chose to ruin herself there was, of

course, no reason why I should worry, but it is annoying to have a

person constantly asking for advice and as constantly disregarding it.

I never really understood why Mrs. Magnus asked for advice at all.

She was a woman of about fifty, thin and nervous, with a curious habit

of compressing her lips into a tight knot, under the impression, I

suppose, that the result indicated strength of character. Peter

Magnus had married her when he was only an obscure clerk in the great

commission house which he was afterward to own, and she was a school

teacher or governess, or something of that sort. Perhaps she was a

little ahead of him intellectually at the start, but he had broadened

and developed, while she had narrowed and dried up, but she never lost

the illusion of her mental supremacy, nor the idea that she had, in

some dim way, married beneath her.

There were no children, and for the past ten years the old Magnus

house on Twenty-third Street had been for her a kind of hermitage from

which she seldom issued. Great business blocks sprang up on either

side of it, but she would never permit her husband to sell it and move

farther uptown.

For Magnus, on the other hand, the house became in time merely a sort

of way station between the busy terminals of his life. I dare say he

grew indifferent to his wife. That however, has nothing to do with

this story.

Mrs. Magnus usually entered my office as one intrenched in conscious

strength, but this morning it was evident that something had occurred

to disturb her calm assurance. Her lips seemed more shrunken than

ever; there were little lines of worry about her eyes, and dark

circles under them, and as she dropped into the chair I placed for

her, I saw that her hands were trembling. As I sat down in my own

chair and swung around to face her, the conviction struck through me

that she was badly frightened.

"Mr. Lester," she began, after a moment in which she was visibly

struggling for self-control, "I want fifty thousand dollars in

currency."

"Why--why, of course," I stammered, trying to accept the demand as

quite an ordinary one. "When?"

"By eight o'clock to-night."

"Very well," I said. "But I suppose you know that, to secure the money

so quickly, some of your securities will have to be sacrificed. It's a

bear market."

"I don't care--sacrifice them. Only I must have that sum to-night."

"Very well," I said again. "But I hope you will tell me, if you can,

what the money is for, Mrs. Magnus. Perhaps my advice--"

"No, it won't," she broke in. "This isn't a case for advice. There's

nothing else for me to do. I've been fighting it and fighting

it--but--"

She ended with a little gesture of helplessness and resignation.

"Perhaps we might borrow the money," I suggested, "until a better

market--"

"No," she broke in again, "you know I won't borrow. So don't talk

about it."

It was one of the fundamental tenets of this woman's financial creed

that on no account was money to be borrowed.