"What is it?" she asked absently. She was watching the flag slowly unfurling itself in the breeze, and fluttering languidly above the tree-tops. It was odd to think that a master was coming to rule there. "It's about Falcon's Nest. I wish I'd never thought of letting it!" "Why? It would be a great deal better occupied, surely!" "If I could let it to a decent tenant, of course it would. But, you know that fellow Chapman, of Mallory? He wants it!" She looked up at him quickly. "You surely would not let it to a man like that?" "Certainly not. But, on the other hand, I don't want to offend him. If I were to decide to stand for the county at the next election, he would be my most useful man in Mallory, or my worst enemy. He's just the sort of fellow to take offence--quickly, too." "Can't you tell him it's let?" "Not unless I do let it to some one. Of course not!" "But are there no other applications?" "Yes, there is one other," he answered; "but the most awkward part of it is that it's from a complete stranger. Fellow who calls himself 'Brown.'" "Let me see the letter," she said. He passed it over the table to her. It was written on plain notepaper, in a peculiar, cramped handwriting. "_London_, May 30. "DEAR SIR,--I understand, from an advertisement in this week's _Field_, that you are willing to let 'Falcon's Nest,' situated on your estate. I shall be happy to take it at the rent you quote, if not already disposed of. My solicitors are Messrs. Cuthbert, of Lincoln's Inn; and my bankers, Gregsons. I may add that I am a bachelor, living alone. The favor of your immediate reply will much oblige, "Yours faithfully, "BERNARD BROWN." She folded the letter up, and returned it to her father without remark. "You see," Mr. Thurwell said, "my only chance of escaping from Chapman, without offending him, is to say that it is already let, and to accept this fellow's offer straight off. But it's an awful risk. How do I know that Brown isn't a retired tallow-chandler or something of that sort?" "Why not telegraph to his solicitors?" she suggested; "they would know who he was, I suppose." "That's not a bad idea!" he declared. "Morton shall ride over to Mallory at once. I'm glad you thought of it, Helen." Having come to this decision, Mr. Thurwell turned round and made an excellent breakfast, after which he and his daughter spent the day very much in the same manner as any other English country gentleman and young lady are in the habit of doing. He made a pretense of writing some letters and arranging some business affairs with his agent in the library for an hour, and, later on in the morning, he drove over to Mallory, and took his seat on the magistrates' bench during the hearing of a poaching case. After lunch, he rode to an outlying farm to inspect a new system of drainage, and when he returned, about an hour before dinner-time, he considered that he had done a good day's work.