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The thing simply shouted 'Priam Farll, every inch of it. In any exhibition of pictures in London, Paris, Rome, Milan, Munich, New York or Boston, it would have been the cynosure, the target of ecstatic admirations. It was just such another work as his celebrated 'Pont d'Austerlitz, which hung in the Luxembourg.
Every one naturally expected that in the following year the mysterious Priam Farll would, in accordance with the universal rule for a successful career in British art, contribute another portrait of another policeman to the New Gallery and so on for about twenty years, at the end of which period England would have learnt to recognize him as its favourite painter of policemen.
George's Hall were continually buying newspapers from these middlemen of tidings. He blushed. It was singular that he could have walked even half-an-hour in Central London without noticing that his own name flew in the summer breeze of every street. But so it had been. He was that sort of man. Now he understood how Duncan Farll had descended upon Selwood Terrace.
What atmosphere! What poetry! And what profound fidelity to nature's facts! It was precisely such a picture as he was in the habit of selling for £800 or a £1,000, before his burial in Westminster Abbey! Indeed, the trouble was that it had 'Priam Farll' written all over it, just as the sketch had! The Confession
"Come in here, Leek," said Duncan. And Priam meekly stepped after him into the room where the hard chair was. Duncan Farll took the hard chair. "What are your wages?" Priam sought to remember how much he had paid Henry Leek. "A hundred a year," said he. "Ah! A good wage. When were you last paid?" Priam remembered that he had paid Leek two days ago. "The day before yesterday," said he.
Nobody could have been more astonished than No. 2 at the fulfillment of No. 2's secret yearning for novelty. But the innocent sincerity of No. 2's astonishment gave no aid to No. 1. Farll raised his hat, and at the same moment perceived the roses. He might have denied the name of Leek and fled, but he did not. Though his left leg was ready to run, his right leg would not stir.
She had detected a legend incised on one of the small stone flags which form the vast floor of the nave. They stooped over it. "PRIAM FARLL," it said simply, in fine Roman letters and then his dates. That was all. Near by, on other flags, they deciphered other names of honour.
I could see well enough what your thoughts were." "I thought you weren't quite well," she said frankly. "But I was, my child. Now I've got to tell you again that I am Priam Farll. Honestly I wish I wasn't, but I am. The deuce of it is that that fellow that came here this morning has found it out, and there's going to be trouble. At least there has been trouble, and there may be more."
Henry Leek's skin was indeed bluish, though, besides blankets, there was a considerable apparatus of rugs on the bed, and the night was warm. But he made no movement, uttered no word, at sight of the doctor; just stared, dully. His own difficult breathing alone seemed to interest him. "Any women up?" The doctor turned suddenly and fiercely on Priam Farll, who started.
The article ended with the word 'basilica, and by the time you had reached this majestic substantive, you felt indeed, with the Sunday News, that a National Valhalla without the remains of a Priam Farll inside it, would be shocking, if not inconceivable. Priam Farll was extremely disturbed. On Monday morning the Daily Record came nobly to the support of the Sunday News.
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