tle snot, that’s all. ‘The orst cnarge 
riddled the dog. But I forgot. I am 
still on your sister’s land. At any min- 
ute I may be shot from behind some 
tree. I—I couldn’t help crying, Miss 
Drake. It was cruel—fiendish! Now, 
if you'll permit me I’ll take my dead 
off of your land.” 
“Stop! I must know about it. 
me; how did it happen?” 
“I can’t talk about it to you.” 
“Why not? Do you think I condone 
this outrage? Do you think I can sup. 
port such means of warfare? You do 
not know me, Mr. Shaw; you do not 
know an Englishwoman’s love of fair- 
ness.” 
“By Jove, do you mean it?” His 
eyes lighted up. “But, after all, you 
belong to the other camp,” he added | 
dejectedly. “I—I wish to heaven, Miss. 
Drake, you were not one of them!” : 
“My brother—Cecil would not have 
permitted this,” she tried to apologize, 
remembering with a cold heart that 
Lord Bazelhurst had given the very 
fnstructions of which this was the re- 
Bult. 
“We can’t discuss it, Miss Drake. 
Some one from your side of the line 
killed my dog and then fired at me. I'll 
ndmit I was trespassing, but not until 
the dog was shot. He was on Lady 
Bazelhurst’s land when he was shot. 
It was not until after that that I tres- 
~ passed, if you are pleased to call it 
such. But 1 was unarmed, hang the 
luck!" The way he said it conveyed 
much to her understanding. 
“Tell me, please.” 
“I’ve had murder in my heart for 
half an hour, Miss Drake. Somehow 
you soothe me.” He sat down on the 
log again and leaned his head upon his 
hand. With his eyes upon the dead 
dog he went on, controlling his anger 
with an effort: “I rode down the river 
ronda thic morning for a change. intend- 
ing to go up later on to our trysting 
place through the wood.” She heard 
him call it a trysting place without a 
thought of resentment or shame. 
“When I came to the log there I stop- 
ped, but Bonaparte, lawless old chap, 
kept on. I paid no attention to him, 
for I was thinking of—of something 
._ else. He had raced around in the for- 
bidden underbrush for some time be- 
fore I heard the report of a gun near 
at hand. The dog actually screamed 
’ like a human being. I saw him leap 
up from the ground and then roll over. 
Of course, I—well, I trespassed. With- 
out thinking of my own safety I flew 
. to where the dog was lying. He look- 
ed up into my face and whined just as 
he died. I don’t remember how I got 
off the horse. The next I knew I was 
rushing blindly into the brush toward 
a place where I saw smoke cursing like 
a fiend. Then came the second shot 
and the stinging in my arm. It brought 
me to my senses. I stopped and a mo- 
ment later I saw a man running down 
along the bank of the stream. I—oh, 
well, there isn’t any more to tell. I 
don’t know who fired the shots. I 
couldn’t see his face.” 
“It was Tompkins,” she cried. “I 
... know it was... He had his orders’”’— but 
. Tell 
NORTH SHORE BREEZE 
poe cnecked onerseil M cullusivn. 
“His orders? Do you mean to say— 
Miss Drake, did your brother instruct 
him to kill me?" She quailed beneath 
his look. 
“T—I can’t say anything more about 
it, Mr. Shaw.” she murmured, so pit- 
eously that he was touched. For a 
seemingly interminable length of time 
his hard eyes looked into hers, and 
then they softened. 
“] understand,” he said simply. “You 
cannot talk about it. I’ll not ask any 
questions.” 
“My brother is weak in her hands,” 
she managed to say in extenuation 
“After all, it isn’t a pleasant subject. 
If you don’t mind we'll let it drop— 
that is, between you and me, Miss 
Drake. I hope the war won’t break 
off our’— 
“Don’t suggest it, please. I’d rather 
you wouldn’t. We are friends, after 
all. I thought it was playing at war, 
and I can’t tell. you how shocked I 
am.” 
“Poor old Bonaparte!” was all he 
said in reply. She stooped and laid her 
hand on the fast chilling coat of the 
dog. There were tears in her eyes as 
she arose and turned away, moving to- 
ward her horse. Shaw deliberately 
lifted the dead animal into his arms 
and strode off toward his own land. 
She followed after a moment of inde- 
cision, leading the horse. Across the 
line he went and up the side of the 
knoll to his right. At the foot of a 
great tree he tenderly deposited his 
burden, Then he turned to find her al- 
most beside him. 
“You won’t mind my coming over 
here, will you?” she asked softly. He 
reached out and clasped her hand 
thoughilessly with his blood covered 
fingers. It was not until long after- 
ward that she discovered his blood 
upon the hand from which she had 
drawn her riding glove. 
“You are always welcome,” he said. 
“I am going to bury him here this aft- 
ernoon. No; please don’t come. Pll 
bring the men down to help me. I sup- 
pose they think [’'m a coward and a 
pounder over at your place. Do you 
remember the challenge you gave me 
yesterday? You dared me to come 
over the line as far into Bazelhurst 
land as you had come into mine. Well, 
I dared last night.” 
“You dared? You came?” 
“Yes, and | went farther than you 
have gone, because I thought it was 
play, comedy, fun. I even sat upon 
your gallery just outside the billiard 
room—and smoked two. cigarettes. 
You’ll find the stubs on the porch rail- 
ing if her Indyship’s servants are not 
too exemplary.” She was looking at 
him in wide eyed unbelief. “I was 
there when you came out on the lawn 
with the Frenchman.” 
“Did you hear what he was—what 
we were saying?” she asked nervously 
and going pale. 
“No. I was not eavesdropping. Be- 
sides, you returned to the house very 
abruptly, if you remember.” 
“Yes, I remember,” she said, a sigh 
nd 
Oo. Tener accompauylag (Oe Waris gv 
that came to her cheek. “But were 
you not afraid of being discovered? 
How imprudent of you!” 
“It was a bit risky, but I rather en 
joyed it. The count spoke to me as | 
left the place. It was dark, and he 
mistook me for one of your party. I 
couldn’t wait to see if you returned to 
renew the tete-a-tete”— 
“TI did not return,”’ she said. 
his turn to be relieved. 
It was 
CHAPTER IV. 
In Which the Truth Trespasses, 
ORD and Lady Bazelburst, with 
the more energetic members of 
their party, spent the day in 
a so called hunting excursion 
to the hills south of the villa. Toward 
nightfall they returned successfully 
empty handed and _ rapacious for 
bridge. Penelope, full of smoldering 
anger, had spent the afternoon in her 
room, disdaining every call of sociabil- 
ity She had awakened to the truth of 
the situation in so far as she was con- 
cerned. She was at least seeing things 
from Shaw’s point of view. Her re 
sentment was not against the policy 
of her brother, but the overbearing. 
petulant tyranny of her American sis- 
ter-in-law. From the beginning she 
had disliked Evelyn; now she despised 
her. With the loyal simplicity of a 
sister she absolved Cecil of all real 
blame in the outrage of the morning. 
attributing everything to the cruelty 
and envy of the despot who held the 
purse strings from which dangled the 
pliable fortunes of Bazelhurst. The 
Bazelhursts, one and all—ancestors 
thrown in—swung back and forth on 
the pendulum of her capriciousness. 
Penelope, poor as a church mouse, was 
almost wholly dependent upon her 
brother, who in turn owed his present 
affluence to the more or less luckless 
movement of the matrimonia! market. 
The girl had a small, inadequate in- 
come—so small that it was almost 
worth jesting about. 
Here was Penelope, twenty-two, 
beautiful, proud, fair minded and 
healthy, surveying herself for the first 
time from a new and an entirely dif- 
ferent point of view. She was not 
pleased with the picture. She began 
to loathe herself more than she pitied 
her brother. Something like a smile 
came into her clouded face as she spec- 
ulated on Randolph Shaw’s method of 
handling Evelyn Banks had she fallen 
to him as a wife. The quiet power in 
that man’s face signified the presence 
of a manhood that—ah, and just here 
it occurred to her that Lady Bazelburst 
felt the force of that power even 
though she never had seen the man. 
She hated him because he was strong 
enough to oppose her, to ignore her, te 
laugh at her impotence. 
{To BE CONTINUED.) 
Man is the only animal that knows 
nothing, that can learn nothing, with- 
out being taught.—Pliny. 
