She was her own
mistress and privileged to ride as often as she pleased, but it seemed
rather odd--although splendidly decorous--that she did not venture
upon Mr. Shaw's estate for more than a week after her first encounter
with the feudal baron. If she found a peculiarly feminine satisfaction
in speculating on his disappointment, it is not to be wondered at.
Womanly insight told her that Randolph Shaw rode forth each day and
watched with hawk-like vigilance for the promised trespasser. In his
imagination, she could almost hear him curse the luck that was helping
her to evade the patrol.
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-print. 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 didn't say anything, don't you
know.
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