rode forth each day and watched with hawk-like vigilance for the promised trespasser. In her imagination, she could almost hear him curse the luck that was helping her to evade the patrol.
P
One morning, after a rain, she rode with the duke to the spot where Shaw had drawn his line in the road. She felt a thrill of something she could not define on discovering that the wet soil on the opposite side of the line was disfigured by a mass of fresh hoof-prints. She rejoiced to find that his vigil was incessant and worthy of the respect it imposed. The desire to visit the haunted house was growing more and more irresistible, but she turned it aside with all the relentless perverseness of a woman who feels it worth while to procrastinate.
Truth to tell, Randolph Shaw was going hollow-eyed and faint in his ceaseless, racking watch for trespassers.
Penelope laughed aloud as she gazed upon the tangle of hoof-prints. The duke looked as surprised as it was possible for him to look after the wear of the past night.
“Hang it all, Penelope,” he said. “I did n't say anything, don't you know.”
“I was just thinking,” she said hastily, “what fun it would be for us to explore the haunted house.”
“Oh, I say, Pen, that's going out of the way for a little fun, is n't it? My word, it 's a filthy old house with rats and mice and all that—no place for a ghost, much less a nice little human being like you. They're like that.”
“I think you are afraid to go,” said she.
“Afraid of ghosts? Pshaw!” sniffed the duke, sticking out his chest.
“Yes, Shaw! That's whom you're afraid of.”
“Now, see here, Pen, you should n't say that. Shaw's a d—, a cad. See what Cecil did to him. Remember that? Well, pooh! What would I do to him?” Penelope looked him over critically.
“I'll admit that you're larger and younger than Cecil,” she confessed grudgingly. “But they say Mr. Shaw is a giant-killer.” The duke dropped his monocle and guffawed loudly.
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