There are moments, psychologists tell us, when the passion for sin, or for what the world calls sin, so dominates a nature that every fibre of the body, as every cell of the brain, seems to be instinct with fearful impulses.  Men and women at such moments lose the freedom of their will.  They move to their terrible end as automatons move.  Choice is taken from them, and conscience is either killed, or, if it lives at all, lives but to give rebellion its fascination and disobedience its charm.  For all sins, as theologians weary not of reminding us, are sins of disobedience.  When that high spirit, that morning star of evil, fell from heaven, it was as a rebel that he fell.

Callous, concentrated on evil, with stained mind, and soul hungry for rebellion, Dorian Gray hastened on, quickening his step as he went, but as he darted aside into a dim archway, that had served him often as a short cut to the ill-famed place where he was going, he felt himself suddenly seized from behind, and before he had time to defend himself, he was thrust back against the wall, with a brutal hand round his throat.

He struggled madly for life, and by a terrible effort wrenched the tightening fingers away.  In a second he heard the click of a revolver, and saw the gleam of a polished barrel, pointing straight at his head, and the dusky form of a short, thick-set man facing him.

“What do you want?” he gasped.

“Keep quiet,” said the man.  “If you stir, I shoot you.”

“You are mad.  What have I done to you?”

“You wrecked the life of Sibyl Vane,” was the answer,
“and Sibyl Vane was my sister.  She killed herself.  I know it. 
Her death is at your door.  I swore I would kill you in return. 
For years I have sought you.  I had no clue, no trace. 
The two people who could have described you were dead. 
I knew nothing of you but the pet name she used to call you. 
I heard it to-night by chance.  Make your peace with God,
for to-night you are going to die.”

Dorian Gray grew sick with fear.  “I never knew her,” he stammered.  “I never heard of her.  You are mad.”

“You had better confess your sin, for as sure as I am James Vane, you are going to die.”  There was a horrible moment.  Dorian did not know what to say or do.  “Down on your knees!” growled the man.  “I give you one minute to make your peace—­no more.  I go on board to-night for India, and I must do my job first.  One minute.  That’s all.”

Dorian’s arms fell to his side.  Paralysed with terror, he did not know what to do.  Suddenly a wild hope flashed across his brain.  “Stop,” he cried.  “How long ago is it since your sister died?  Quick, tell me!”

“Eighteen years,” said the man.  “Why do you ask me?  What do years matter?”

“Eighteen years,” laughed Dorian Gray, with a touch of triumph in his voice.  “Eighteen years!  Set me under the lamp and look at my face!”