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.