"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."