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Updated: June 20, 2025
Duncan Farll's clerk that I saw. He's living there for the time being. A very nice young man. We got quite friendly. It seems Mr. Duncan Farll was in a state when he found the will. The young man did say that he broke a typewriter all to pieces. But the funeral being in Westminster Abbey consoled him. It wouldn't have consoled me no, not it! However, he's very rich himself, so that doesn't matter.
So he paid the bill, under her sagacious, protesting eyes, and he managed to conceal from those eyes the precise amount of the tip; and then, at the cloak-room, he furtively gave sixpence to a fat and wealthy man who had been watching over his hat and stick. And through the glass portals Priam Farll had a momentary glimpse of the reflection of light on a cabman's wet macintosh. It was raining.
And more blankets! Now don't stand there, please! Here! I'll go with you to the kitchen. Show me!" He snatched up the candle, and the expression of his features said, "I can see you're no good in a crisis." "It's all up with me, doctor," came a faint whisper from the bed. "So it is, my boy!" said the doctor under his breath as he tumbled downstairs in the wake of Priam Farll.
"So long as you haven't committed a murder or anything," she added, with her tranquil smile. "My real name is Priam Farll," he said gruffly. The gruffness was caused by timidity. "I thought Priam Farll was your gentleman's name." "To tell you the truth," he said nervously, "there was a mistake. That photograph that was sent to you was my photograph." "Yes," she said. "I know it was.
"Yes," she asseverated stoutly. "I knew you at once. Especially by the nose." "Have you got it here?" he asked, interested to see what portrait of Leek had a nose like his own. And she pulled out of her handbag a photograph, not of Leek, but of Priam Farll.
Priam Farll was something of a dandy, and like all right-thinking dandies and all tailors, he objected to the suave line of a garment being spoilt by a free utilization of pockets.
He drew from her an expression of opinion that her husband was the real Priam Farll, but she could give no reasons in support did not seem to conceive that reasons in support were necessary. "Has your husband any moles?" asked Crepitude suddenly. "Any what?" demanded Alice, leaning forward. Vodrey, K.C., sprang up.
I'm Priam Farll, and I had a valet named Henry Leek, and he died, and they thought it was me. Only it wasn't." He saw her face change and then compose itself. "Then it's this Henry Leek that is buried in Westminster Abbey, instead of you?" Her voice was very soft and soothing. And the astonishing woman resumed her spectacles and her long needle. "Yes, of course."
They would all have been ready to cushion themselves on her comfortableness. Was she a lady? Pish! She was a woman. Her temperament drew Priam Farll like an electrified magnet. To wander about freely in that roomy sympathy of hers seemed to him to be the supreme reward of experience.
The opposition gave up. Priam Farll grew more and more disturbed in his fortress at the Grand Babylon Hotel. He perfectly remembered making the will. He had made it about seventeen years before, after some champagne in Venice, in an hour of anger against some English criticisms of his work. Yes, English criticisms! It was his vanity that had prompted him to reply in that manner.
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