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.
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