"What's that?" demanded two noblemen in one voice. The count
apologized for his English.
"No one but a coward would permit this disagreeable Shaw creature to
run affairs in such a high-handed way," said her ladyship. "Of course
Cecil is not a coward."
"Thank you, my dear. Never fear, ladies and gentlemen; I shall attend
to this person. He won't soon forget what I have to say to him,"
promised Lord Bazelhurst, mentally estimating the number of brandies
and soda it would require in preparation.
"This afternoon?" asked his wife, with cruel insistence.
"Yes, Evelyn--if I can find him."
And so it was that shortly after four o'clock, Lord Bazelhurst,
unattended at his own request, rode forth like a Lochinvar, his steed
headed bravely toward Shaw's domain, his back facing his own home with
a military indifference that won applause from the assembled house
party.
"I'll face him alone," he had said, a trifle thickly, for some unknown
reason, when the duke offered to accompany him. It also might have
been noticed as he cantered down the drive that his legs did not stick
out so stiffly, nor did his person bob so exactingly as on previous
but peaceful expeditions.
In fact, he seemed a bit limp. But his face was set determinedly for
the border line and Shaw.
CHAPTER II
IN WHICH A YOUNG WOMAN TRESPASSES
Mr. Shaw was a tall young man of thirty or thereabouts, smooth-faced,
good-looking and athletic. It was quite true that he wore a red
coat when tramping through his woods and vales, not because it was
fashionable, but because he had a vague horror of being shot at by
some near-sighted nimrod from Manhattan.
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