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Updated: June 21, 2025
And now the lion of his genius was standing over him, its paw on his breast, and making a great noise. He saw that the last few months had been merely an interlude, that he would be forced to paint or go mad; and that nothing else mattered. He saw also that he could only paint in one way Priam Farll's way.
But in a letter he could be absolutely brazen. Give him a pen and he was fearless. Now he knew that he would have to go and open the front door. Both humanity and self-interest urged him to go instantly. For the visitant was assuredly the doctor, come at last to see the sick man lying upstairs. The sick man was Henry Leek, and Henry Leek was Priam Farll's bad habit.
And, being a bad habit, he had, of course, grown on Priam Farll, and thus, year after year, for a quarter of a century, Farll's shyness, with his riches and his glory, had increased. Happily Leek was never ill. That is to say, he never had been ill, until this day of their sudden incognito arrival in London for a brief sojourn.
Even without an inquest, he saw that the affair would be unthinkably distressing. He felt that it would kill him, and he put his hand to his face. "Where are Mr. Farll's relatives to be found?" the doctor asked. "Mr. Farll's relatives?" Priam Farll repeated without comprehending. Then he understood. Dr. Cashmore thought that Henry Leek's name was Farll!
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