Buried Alive | Page 7

boy!
Never would he have recognized Duncan. 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.
"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.
"I must say again you are not very respectful," Duncan observed,
drawing forth his pocket-book. "However, here is £8 7s., a month's
wages in lieu of notice. Put your things together, and go. I shall have no
further use for you. I will make no observations of any kind. But be
good enough to _dress_--it is three o'clock--and leave the house at once.
Let me see your box or boxes before you go."
When, an hour later, in the gloaming, Priam Farll stood on the wrong
side of his own door, with Henry Leek's heavy kit-bag and Henry
Leek's tin trunk flanking him on either hand, he saw that events in his
career were moving with immense rapidity. He had wanted to be free,
and free he was. Quite free! But it appeared to him very remarkable
that so much could happen, in so short a time, as the result of a mere
momentary impulsive prevarication.
* * * * *
CHAPTER II

A Pail
Sticking out of the pocket of Leek's light overcoat was a folded copy of
the Daily Telegraph. 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. The overcoat itself,
and the suit beneath, were quite good; for, though they were the
property of the late Henry Leek, they perfectly fitted Priam Farll and
had recently belonged to him, Leek having been accustomed to clothe
himself entirely from his master's wardrobe. The dandy absently drew
forth the Telegraph, and the first thing that caught his eye was this: "A
beautiful private hotel of the highest class. Luxuriously furnished.
Visitor's comfort studied. Finest position in London. Cuisine a
speciality. Quiet. Suitable for persons of superior rank. Bathroom.
Electric light. Separate tables. No irritating extras. Single rooms from
2-1/2 guineas, double from 4 guineas weekly. 250 Queen's Gate." And
below this he saw another piece of news: "Not a boarding-house. A
magnificent mansion. Forty bedrooms by Waring. Superb public
saloons by Maple. Parisian chef. Separate tables. Four bathrooms.
Card-room, billiard-room, vast lounge. Young, cheerful, musical
society. Bridge (small). Special sanitation. Finest position in London.
No irritating extras. Single rooms from 2-1/2 guineas, double from 4
guineas weekly. Phone 10,073 Western. Trefusis Mansion, W."
At that moment a hansom cab came ambling down Selwood Terrace.
Impulsively he hailed it.
"'Ere, guv'nor," said the cabman, seeing with an expert eye that Priam
Farll was unaccustomed to the manipulation of luggage. "Give this 'ere
Hackenschmidt a copper to lend ye a hand. You're only a light weight."
A small and emaciated boy, with the historic remains of a cigarette in
his mouth, sprang like a monkey up the steps, and, not waiting to be
asked, snatched the trunk from Priam's hands. Priam gave him one of
Leek's sixpences for his feats of strength, and the boy spat generously
on the coin, at the same time, by a strange skill, clinging to the cigarette
with his lower lip. Then the driver lifted the reins with a noble gesture,

and Priam had to be decisive and get into the cab.
"250 Queen's Gate," said he.
As, keeping his head to one side to avoid the reins, he gave the
direction across the roof of the cab to the attentive cocked ear of the
cabman, he felt suddenly that he had regained his nationality, that he
was utterly English, in an atmosphere utterly English. The hansom was
like home after the wilderness.
He had chosen 250 Queen's Gate because it appeared the abode of
tranquillity and discretion. He felt that he might sink into 250 Queen's
Gate as into a feather bed. The other palace intimidated him. It recalled
the terrors of a continental hotel. In his wanderings he had suffered
much from the young, cheerful and musical society of bright hotels,
and bridge (small) had no attraction for him.
As the