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Updated: June 20, 2025
Oxford and another army of experts of European reputation were waiting to prove that the pictures admittedly painted after the burial in the National Valhalla, were painted by Priam Farll, and could have been painted by no other. They demonstrated this by internal evidence. In other words, they proved by deductions from squares of canvas that Priam had moles on his neck.
A bell startled the forlorn house; its loud old-fashioned jangle came echoingly up the basement stairs and struck the ear of Priam Farll, who half rose and then sat down again. He knew that it was an urgent summons to the front door, and that none but he could answer it; and yet he hesitated.
"Seeing the money you've made, I should just say you hadn't," she handsomely admitted. "Where we should be without it I don't know." "You were wrong, weren't you? And I was right?" "Of course," she beamed. "And do you remember that time I told you I was really Priam Farll?" She nodded, reluctantly. "You thought I was absolutely mad. Oh, you needn't deny it!
There was distress in her voice. He nodded. "One gets accustomed to it." "Oh yes," she said. "I can understand that." "No responsibilities," he added. "No. I can understand all that." Then she hesitated. "But I do feel so sorry for you... all these years!" And her eyes were moist, and her tone was so sincere that Priam Farll found it quite remarkably affecting.
Evidently it did not occur to Duncan to recognize him. People are apt to grow unrecognizable in the course of forty years. Duncan Farll strode about the ground-floor of the house, and on the threshold of each room ejaculated "Ah!" or "Ha!" Then he and the doctor went upstairs. Priam remained inert, and excessively disturbed, in the hall. At length Duncan Farll descended.
The late Lord Rowndell had what is supposed to be the finest lot of Farlls in England. Man: Did you ever meet Priam Farll, Father Luke? Priest: Never. I understand he was most eccentric. I hate eccentricity. I once wrote to him to ask him if he would paint a Holy Family for St. Bede's. Man: And what did he reply? Priest: He didn't reply.
Crepitude was beginning again, but he stopped and said to Duncan Farll, "Thank you. You can step down." Then a witness named Justini, a cashier at the Hôtel de Paris, Monte Carlo, swore that Priam Farll, the renowned painter, had spent four days in the Hôtel de Paris one hot May, seven years ago, and that the person in the court whom the defendant stated to be Priam Farll was not that man.
Woman: So that I can go to the inquest or the police court or whatever it is. That's why I always keep friendly with magistrates. It's so frightfully thrilling, sitting on the bench with them. Man: There won't be any inquest. But there's something queer in it. You see, Priam Farll was never in England. Always abroad; at those foreign hotels, wandering up and down. Man: What do you know?
From this point onwards Priam Farll, opulent though he was and illustrious, had sunk to a tragic impotence. He could do nothing for himself; and he could do nothing for Leek, because Leek refused both brandy and sandwiches, and the larder consisted solely of brandy and sandwiches. The man lay upstairs there, comatose, still, silent, waiting for the doctor who had promised to pay an evening visit.
Leaving Priam Farll, the great and wealthy artist, we return to that far more interesting person, Priam Farll the private human creature; and come at once to the dreadful secret of his character, the trait in him which explained the peculiar circumstances of his life. As a private human creature, he happened to be shy. He was quite different from you or me.
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