“By Jove!” muttered his lordship, suddenly deciding that it would not be convenient for them to appear on the scene at its present stage. “My friends are calling me. Her ladyship doubtless is near at hand. She rides, you know--I mean dem you! Would n't have her see you for a fortune. Not another word, sir! You have my orders. Stay off or I'll--throw you off!” This last threat was almost shrieked and was plainly heard by the two horsemen. “By Jove, he's facing the fellow,” said the duke to the count. “Ees eet Shaw? Parbleu!” “I'll send some one for that watch. Don't you dare to touch it,” said his lord-ship in tones barely audible. Then he loped off to meet his friends and turn them back before they came too close for comfort. Randolph Shaw laughed heartily as he watched the retreat. Seeing the newcomers halt and then turn abruptly back into their tracks he picked up the watch and strolled off into the woods, taking a short cut for the dirt road which led up to his house. “I had him begging for mercy,” explained his lordship as he rode along. “I was on his land for half an hour before he would come within speaking distance. Come along. I need a drink.” Young Mr. Shaw came to the road in due time and paused, after his climb, to rest on a stone at the wayside. He was still a mile from home and in the loneliest part of his domain. The Bazelhurst line was scarcely a quarter of a mile behind him. Trees and underbrush grew thick and impenetrable alongside the narrow, winding road; the light of heaven found it difficult to struggle through to the highway below. Picturesque but lonely and sombre indeed were his surroundings. “Some one coming?” he said aloud, as Bonaparte pricked up his ears and looked up the road. A moment later a horse and rider turned the bend a hundred yards away and came slowly toward him. He started to his feet with an exclamation. The rider was a woman and she was making her way leisurely toward the Bazelhurst lands. “Lady Bazelhurst, I'll bet my hat,” thought he with a quiet whistle. “By George, this is awkward. My first trespasser is in petticoats. I say, she's a beauty--a ripping beauty. Lord, Lord, what do such women mean by giving themselves to little rats like Bazelhurst? Oh, the shame of it! Well, it's up to me! If I expect to make good, I've just got to fire her off these grounds.” Naturally he expected to be very polite about it--instinctively so; he could not have been otherwise. The horsewoman saw him step into the middle of the road, smiling oddly but deferentially; her slim figure straightened, her colour rose, and there was a--yes, there was a relieved gleam in her eyes. As she drew near he advanced, hat in hand, his face uplifted in his most winning smile--savouring more of welcome than of repellence. “I beg your pardon,” he said; “doubtless you are not aware that this is proscribed land.”