“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.