At intervals during his researches Mr. Somerton had been haunted by the
recollection of the gossip about the hidden treasure, and, as he
thought the matter over, it became more and more obvious to him that if
the Abbot meant anything by the enigmatical answer which he gave to his
questioners, he must have meant that the secret was to be found
somewhere in the window he had placed in the abbey church. It was
undeniable, furthermore, that the first of the curiously-selected texts
on the scrolls in the window might be taken to have a reference to
hidden treasure. Every feature, therefore, or mark which could possibly assist in
elucidating the riddle which, he felt sure, the Abbot had set to
posterity he noted with scrupulous care, and, returning to his
Berkshire manor-house, consumed many a pint of the midnight oil over
his tracings and sketches. After two or three weeks, a day came when Mr
Somerton announced to his man that he must pack his own and his
master’s things for a short journey abroad, whither for the moment we
will not follow him. II

Mr Gregory, the Rector of Parsbury, had strolled out before breakfast,
it being a fine autumn morning, as far as the gate of his
carriage-drive, with intent to meet the postman and sniff the cool air. Nor was he disappointed of either purpose. Before he had had time to
answer more than ten or eleven of the miscellaneous questions
propounded to him in the lightness of their hearts by his young
offspring, who had accompanied him, the postman was seen approaching;
and among the morning’s budget was one letter bearing a foreign
postmark and stamp (which became at once the objects of an eager
competition among the youthful Gregorys), and was addressed in an
uneducated, but plainly an English hand. When the Rector opened it, and turned to the signature, he realized
that it came from the confidential valet of his friend and squire, Mr.
Somerton. Thus it ran:

HONOURED SIR,
    Has I am in a great anxiety about Master I write at is Wish to beg
    you Sir if you could be so good as Step over. Master Has add a
    Nastey Shock and keeps His Bedd. I never Have known Him like this
    but No wonder and Nothing will serve but you Sir. Master says would
    I mintion the Short Way Here is Drive to Cobblince and take a Trap. Hopeing I Have maid all Plain, but am much Confused in Myself what
    with Anxiatey and Weakfulness at Night. If I might be so Bold Sir
    it will be a Pleasure to see a Honnest Brish Face among all These
    Forig ones. I am Sir
Your obedt Servt
William Brown. P.S.—The Village for Town I will not Turm. It is name Steenfeld. The reader must be left to picture to himself in detail the surprise,
confusion, and hurry of preparation into which the receipt of such a
letter would be likely to plunge a quiet Berkshire parsonage in the
year of grace 1859. It is enough for me to say that a train to town was
caught in the course of the day, and that Mr Gregory was able to secure
a cabin in the Antwerp boat and a place in the Coblentz train. Nor was
it difficult to manage the transit from that centre to Steinfeld. I labour under a grave disadvantage as narrator of this story in that I
have never visited Steinfeld myself, and that neither of the principal
actors in the episode (from whom I derive my information) was able to
give me anything but a vague and rather dismal idea of its appearance. I gather that it is a small place, with a large church despoiled of its
ancient fittings; a number of rather ruinous great buildings, mostly of
the seventeenth century, surround this church; for the abbey, in common
with most of those on the Continent, was rebuilt in a luxurious fashion
by its inhabitants at that period. It has not seemed to me worth while
to lavish money on a visit to the place, for though it is probably far
more attractive than either Mr Somerton or Mr Gregory thought it, there
is evidently little, if anything, of first-rate interest to be
seen—except, perhaps, one thing, which I should not care to see. The inn where the English gentleman and his servant were lodged is, or
was, the only “possible” one in the village. Mr Gregory was taken to it
at once by his driver, and found Mr Brown waiting at the door. Mr
Brown, a model when in his Berkshire home of the impassive whiskered
race who are known as confidential valets, was now egregiously out of
his element, in a light tweed suit, anxious, almost irritable, and
plainly anything but master of the situation. His relief at the sight
of the “honest British face” of his Rector was unmeasured, but words to
describe it were denied him. He could only say:

“Well, I ham pleased, I’m sure, sir, to see you. And so I’m sure, sir,
will master.”

“How _is_ your master, Brown?” Mr Gregory eagerly put in. “I think he’s better, sir, thank you; but he’s had a dreadful time of
it. I ’ope he’s gettin’ some sleep now, but—”

“What has been the matter—I couldn’t make out from your letter? Was it
an accident of any kind?”

“Well, sir, I ’ardly know whether I’d better speak about it. Master was
very partickler he should be the one to tell you. But there’s no bones
broke—that’s one thing I’m sure we ought to be thankful—”

“What does the doctor say?” asked Mr Gregory. They were by this time outside Mr Somerton’s bedroom door, and speaking
in low tones. Mr Gregory, who happened to be in front, was feeling for
the handle, and chanced to run his fingers over the panels. Before
Brown could answer, there was a terrible cry from within the room. “In God’s name, who is that?” were the first words they heard. “Brown,
is it?”

“Yes, sir—me, sir, and Mr Gregory,” Brown hastened to answer, and there
was an audible groan of relief in reply. They entered the room, which was darkened against the afternoon sun,
and Mr Gregory saw, with a shock of pity, how drawn, how damp with
drops of fear, was the usually calm face of his friend, who, sitting up
in the curtained bed, stretched out a shaking hand to welcome him. “Better for seeing you, my dear Gregory,” was the reply to the Rector’s
first question, and it was palpably true. After five minutes of conversation Mr Somerton was more his own man,
Brown afterwards reported, than he had been for days. He was able to
eat a more than respectable dinner, and talked confidently of being fit
to stand a journey to Coblentz within twenty-four hours. “But there’s one thing,” he said, with a return of agitation which Mr
Gregory did not like to see, “which I must beg you to do for me, my
dear Gregory. Don’t,” he went on, laying his hand on Gregory’s to
forestall any interruption—“don’t ask me what it is, or why I want it
done. I’m not up to explaining it yet; it would throw me back—undo all
the good you have done me by coming. The only word I will say about it
is that you run no risk whatever by doing it, and that Brown can and
will show you tomorrow what it is. It’s merely to put back—to
keep—something—No; I can’t speak of it yet.