“On duty, Miss Drake. No trespassing,” he said. There was a glad ring in his voice. “Please don't run away. You 're on the safe side.” “I'm not going to run,” she said, her cheek flushing. “How do you know where the line is? It has been destroyed by the ravages of time.” “Yes. It has seemed a year. This thing of acting sentinel so religiously is a bit wearing.” His great, friendly dog came across the line, however, and looked bravely up into the enemy's face, wagging his tail. “Traitor! Come back, Bonaparte,” cried his master. “What a beautiful dog,” she cried, sincere admiration in big dog. “'Love me, love my dog,' is my motto.” The conversation was not prolonged. Penelope began to find herself on rather friendly terms with the enemy. Confusion came over her when she remembered that she was behaving in a most unmaidenly manner. Doubtless that was why she brought the meeting to a close by galloping away. The ways of fortune are strange, look at them from any point of view. Surprising as it may seem, a like encounter happened on the following day and--aye, on the day after and every day for a week or more. Occasions there were when Penelope was compelled to equivocate shamefully in order to escape the companionship of the duke, the count, or others of their ilk. Once, when the guardian of the road was late at his post, she rode far into the enemy's country, actually thrilled by the joy of adventure. When he appeared far down the road, she turned and fled with all the sensations of a culprit. And he thundered after her with vindictiveness that deserved better results. Across the line she drew rein and faced him defiantly, her hair blown awry, her cheeks red, her eyes sparkling. “No trespass!” she cried, holding up her gloved hand. He stopped short, for that was one of the terms of truce. The next day he again was missing, but she was not to be caught by his stratagem. Instead of venturing into the trap he had prepared for her, she remained on her side of the line, smiling at the thought of him in hiding far up the road. If any one had suggested to her that she was developing too great an interest in this stalwart gentleman, she would have laughed him to scorn. It had not entered her mind to question herself as to the pleasure she found in being near him. She was founding her actions on the basis that he was a real man and that the little comedy of adventure was quite worth while. At length an impatient line appeared on her fair brow, a resentful gleam in her eyes. His remissness was an impertinence! It was the last time she would come--but a sudden thought struck her like a blow. She turned white and red by turns. Had he tired of the sport? Had the novelty worn off? Was he laughing at her for a silly coquette? The riding crop came down sharply upon her horse's flank and a very deeply agitated young woman galloped off toward Bazelhurst Villa, hurrying as though afraid he might catch sight of her in flight.