They were not the pictures one sees every day, nor once a year.

There was the finest Delacroix of its size that Priam had ever met with; also a Vermeer that made it unnecessary to visit the Ryks Museum.
And on the more distant wall, to which Mr.Oxford came last, in a place of marked honour, was an evening landscape of Volterra, a hill-town in Italy.

The bolts of Priam's very soul started when he caught sight of that picture.

On the lower edge of the rich frame were two words in black lettering: 'Priam Farll.' How well he remembered painting it! And how masterfully beautiful it was! "Now that," said Mr.Oxford, "is in my humble opinion one of the finest Farlls in existence.

What do you think, Mr.Leek ?" Priam paused.