e
was very much bored.

"Some news here that will interest you, Helen," her father remarked
suddenly. "Who do you think is coming home?"

She shook her head. She was not in the least curious.

"I don't remember any one going away lately," she remarked. "How warm it
is!"

"Sir Geoffrey Kynaston is coming back."

After all, she was a little interested. She looked away from the sunny
gardens and into her father's face.

"Really!"

"It is a fact!" he declared. "Douglas says that he will be here to-day
or to-morrow. Let me see, it must be nearly fifteen years since he was
in England. Time he settled down, if he means to at all."

"Was he very wild, then?" she asked.

The squire nodded.

"Rather!" he answered dryly. "I dare say people will have forgotten all
about it by now, though. Forty thousand a year covers a multitude of
sins, especially in a tenth baronet!"

She asked no more questions, but leaned back in her chair, and looked
thoughtfully across the open country towards the grey turrets of
Kynaston Towers, from which a flag was flying. Mr. Thurwell re-read his
agent's letter with a slight frown upon his forehead.

"I don't know what to do here," he remarked.

"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