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-prints. 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 did n't say anything, don't you know.” “I was just thinking,” she said hastily, “what fun it would be for us to explore the haunted house.” “Oh, I say, Pen, that's going out of the way for a little fun, is n't it? My word, it 's a filthy old house with rats and mice and all that--no place for a ghost, much less a nice little human being like you. They're like that.” “I think you are afraid to go,” said she. “Afraid of ghosts? Pshaw!” sniffed the duke, sticking out his chest. “Yes, Shaw! That's whom you're afraid of.” “Now, see here, Pen, you should n't say that. Shaw's a d--, a cad. See what Cecil did to him. Remember that? Well, pooh! What would _I_ do to him?” Penelope looked him over critically. “I'll admit that you're larger and younger than Cecil,” she confessed grudgingly. “But they say Mr. Shaw is a giant-killer.” The duke dropped his monocle and guffawed loudly. “Good!” he cried in the ecstasy of pride. His worn, dissipated face lighted up with unwonted interest. “I say, Pen, that's the nicest thing you've said to me in a week. You've been so deuced cold of late. I don't understand. I'm not such a bad lot, you know.” “Tell that to Mrs. De Peyton and Mrs. Corwith. They're looking for the good in everything.” “By Jove, I believe you're jealous! This is the proudest moment of my life.” “Don't be silly! And don't try to make love to me any more. Wait until I'm married,” she added with a laugh, the irony of which escaped him. “But, hang it all, suppose you should marry some one else and not me.” “That's what I mean.” “Oh!” he said, perplexed. Then, as if his stupidity called for an explanation: “I had a beastly night. Did n't go to bed till four. But, I say, why can't I have the same privilege as these other chaps? Corwith makes love to you and so does Odwell, and, hang it, they're both married. It's rotten mean of--” “Their wives are accountable for their manners, not I. But, come; will you go to Renwood's with me?” “I'd rather talk to you in that nice little corner of the billiard-room at home, if you--”