The Black Abbot

“Thomas!” … “Yes, m’lord.”
Thomas the footman waited, a look of concentrated interest on his unprepossessing face, whilst the pale man behind the big library desk sorted out a small pile of treasury notes. The battered steel box from which they were taken was full to the brim with bank and treasury notes of all denominations in hopeless confusion.
“Thomas!” absently.
“Yes, m’lord.”
“Put this money in that envelope—not that one, you fool, the gray one. Is it addressed?”
“Yes, m’lord. ‘Herr Lubitz, Frankfurterstrasse 35, Leipsic,’ m’lord.”
“Lick it down, take it to the post office and register it. Is Mr. Richard in his study?”
“No, m’lord, he went out an hour ago.”