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.

Helen spent the early part of the morning in the garden, and arranging
freshly cut flowers about the house. Then she practised for an hour,
solely out of a sense of duty, for she was no musician. Directly the
time was up, she closed the piano with a sigh of relief, and spent the
rest of the time before two o'clock reading a rather stupid novel. After
luncheon she made a call several miles off, driving herself in a
light-brown cart, and played several sets of tennis, having for her
partner a very mild and brainless young curate. At dinner-time she and
her father met again, and when he entered the room he had two slips of
orange-colored paper in his hand.

"Well, what news?" she inquired.

He handed the t