a faint show of interest. There were one or two invitations, which he tossed over to her, a few business letters, which he put on one side for more leisurely perusal later on, and a little packet from his agent which he opened at once, and the contents of which brought a slight frown into his handsome face.
Helen Thurwell glanced through her share without finding anything interesting. Tennis parties, archery meetings, a bazaar fête; absolutely nothing fresh. She was so tired of all that sort of thing—tired of eternally meeting the same little set of people, and joining in the same round of so-called amusements. There was nothing in Northshire society which attracted her. It was all very stupid, and she 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 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 telegrams to her without a word, and she glanced them through. The first was from the bankers.
"To Guy Davenant Thurwell, Esq., Thurwell Court, Northshire.
"We consider Mr. Brown a desirable tenant for you from a pecuniary point of view. We know nothing of his family."
The other one was from his lawyers.
"To Guy D. Thurwell, Esq., Thurwell Court, Northshire.
"Mr. Brown is a gentleman of means, and quite in a position to rent 'Falcon's Nest.' We are not at liberty to say anything as to his antecedents or family."
"What am I to do?" asked Mr. Thurwell, undecidedly. "I don't like the end of this last telegram. A solicitor ought to be able to say a little more about a client than that."
Helen considered for a moment. She was so little interested in the matter that she found it difficult to make up her mind either way. Afterwards she scarcely dared think of that moment's indecision.
"Perhaps so," she said. "All the same, I detest Mr. Chapman. I should vote for Mr. Brown."
"Mr. Brown it shall be, then!" he answered. "Douglas shall write him to-morrow."
A fortnight later Mr. Bernard Brown took up his quarters at Falcon's Nest.
CHAPTER II
THE MURDER NEAR THE FALCON'S NEST
"I call it perfectly dreadful of those men!" Helen Thurwell exclaimed suddenly. "They're more than an hour late, and I'm desperately hungry!"
"It is rank ingratitude!" Rachel Kynaston sighed. "I positively cannot sit still and look at that luncheon any longer.