And though his dignity had been considerably damaged during the final moments at Selwood Terrace, there was matter for congratulation.  The doctor, for instance, had shaken hands with him at parting; had shaken hands openly, in the presence of Duncan Farll:  a flattering tribute to his personality.  But the chief of Priam Farll’s satisfactions in that desolate hour was that he had suppressed himself, that for the world he existed no more.  I shall admit frankly that this satisfaction nearly outweighed his grief.  He sighed—­and it was a sigh of tremendous relief.  For now, by a miracle, he would be free from the menace of Lady Sophia Entwistle.  Looking back in calmness at the still recent Entwistle episode in Paris—­the real originating cause of his sudden flight to London—­he was staggered by his latent capacity for downright, impulsive foolishness.  Like all shy people he had fits of amazing audacity—­and his recklessness usually took the form of making himself agreeable to women whom he encountered in travel (he was much less shy with women than with men).  But to propose marriage to a weather-beaten haunter of hotels like Lady Sophia Entwistle, and to reveal his identity to her, and to allow her to accept his proposal—­the thing had been unimaginably inept!

And now he was free, for he was dead.

He was conscious of a chill in the spine as he dwelt on the awful fate which he had escaped.  He, a man of fifty, a man of set habits, a man habituated to the liberty of the wild stag, to bow his proud neck under the solid footwear of Lady Sophia Entwistle!

Yes, there was most decidedly a silver lining to the dark cloud of Leek’s translation to another sphere of activity.

In replacing the pocket-book his hand encountered the letter which had arrived for Leek in the morning.  Arguing with himself whether he ought to open it, he opened it.  It ran:  “Dear Mr. Leek, I am so glad to have your letter, and I think the photograph is most gentlemanly.  But I do wish you would not write with a typewriter.  You don’t know how this affects a woman, or you wouldn’t do it.  However, I shall be so glad to meet you now, as you suggest.  Suppose we go to Maskelyne and Cook’s together to-morrow afternoon (Saturday).  You know it isn’t the Egyptian Hall any more.  It is in St. George’s Hall, I think.  But you will see it in the Telegraph; also the time.  I will be there when the doors open.  You will recognize me from my photograph; but I shall wear red roses in my hat.  So au revoir for the present.  Yours sincerely, Alice Challice.  P.S.—­There are always a lot of dark parts at Maskelyne and Cook’s.  I must ask you to behave as a gentleman should.  Excuse me.  I merely mention it in case.—­A.  C.”

Infamous Leek!  Here was at any rate one explanation of a mysterious little typewriter which the valet had always carried, but which Priam had left at Selwood Terrace.

Priam glanced at the photograph in the pocket-book; and also, strange to say, at the Telegraph.