“Then you _are_ Mr. Shaw?” she asked, checking her horse with premeditated surprise and an emphasis that puzzled him. “Yes, madam,” he responded gravely, “the hated Shaw. Permit me,” and he politely grasped the bridle rein. To her amazement he deliberately turned and began to lead her horse, willy nilly, down the road, very much as if she were a child taking her first riding lesson. “What are you doing, sir? she exclaimed sharply. There was a queer flutter of helplessness in her voice. “Putting you off,” he answered laconically. She laughed in delight and he looked up with a relieved smile. “I'm glad you don't mind. I have to do it. These feuds are such beastly things, you know. One has to live up to them whether he likes it or not.” “So you are putting me off your place? Oh, how lovely!” [Illustration: 0042] “It is n't far, you know--just down by those big rocks. Your line is there. Of course,” he went on politely, “you know that there _is_ a feud.” “Oh, yes; I've heard you discussed. Besides, I met Tompkins and James this morning. Pardon me, Mr. Shaw, but I fancy I can get on without being led. Would you mind--” “My dear madam, there is no alternative. I have taken a solemn vow personally to eject all Bazelhurst trespassers from my place. You forget that I am, by your orders, to be thrown into the river and all that. Don't be alarmed! I don't mean to throw you into the river.” “By my orders? It seems to me that you have confused me with Lord Bazelhurst.” “Heaven has given me keener perception, your ladyship. I have seen his lordship.” “Ah, may I inquire whether he was particularly rough with you this afternoon?” “I trust I am too chivalrous to answer that question.” “You are quite dry.” “Thank you. I deserve the rebuke, all right.” “Oh, I mean you haven't been in the river. “Not since morning. Am I walking too fast for you?” “Not at all. One could n't ask to be put off more considerately.” “By Jove,” he said involuntarily, his admiration getting the better of him. “I beg your pardon,” with slightly elevated eyebrows. “Do you know, you 're not at all what I imagined you'd be.” “Oh? And I fancy I'm not at all _whom_ you imagined me to be.” “Heavens! Am I ejecting an innocent bystander? You _are_ Lady Bazelhurst?” “I am Penelope Drake. But”--she added quickly--“I _am_ an enemy. I am Lord Bazelhurst's sister.” “You--you don't mean it?” “Are you disappointed? I'm sorry.” “I am staggered and--a bit skeptical. There is no resemblance.” “I _am_ a bit taller,” she admitted carefully. “It is n't dreadfully immodest, is it, for one to hold converse with her captor? I am in your power, you see.” “On the contrary, it is quite the thing. The heroine always converses with the villain in books. She tells him what she thinks of him.” “But this is n't a book and I'm not a heroine. I am the adventuress. Will you permit me to explain my presence on your land?”