him.  Basil had painted the portrait that had marred his life.  He could not forgive him that.  It was the portrait that had done everything.  Basil had said things to him that were unbearable, and that he had yet borne with patience.  The murder had been simply the madness of a moment.  As for Alan Campbell, his suicide had been his own act.  He had chosen to do it.  It was nothing to him.

A new life!  That was what he wanted.  That was what he was waiting for.  Surely he had begun it already.  He had spared one innocent thing, at any rate.  He would never again tempt innocence.  He would be good.

As he thought of Hetty Merton, he began to wonder if the portrait in the locked room had changed.  Surely it was not still so horrible as it had been?  Perhaps if his life became pure, he would be able to expel every sign of evil passion from the face.  Perhaps the signs of evil had already gone away.  He would go and look.

He took the lamp from the table and crept upstairs.  As he unbarred the door, a smile of joy flitted across his strangely young-looking face and lingered for a moment about his lips.  Yes, he would be good, and the hideous thing that he had hidden away would no longer be a terror to him.  He felt as if the load had been lifted from him already.

He went in quietly, locking the door behind him, as was his custom, and dragged the purple hanging from the portrait.  A cry of pain and indignation broke from him.  He could see no change, save that in the eyes there was a look of cunning and in the mouth the curved wrinkle of the hypocrite.  The thing was still loathsome—­more loathsome, if possible, than before—­and the scarlet dew that spotted the hand seemed brighter, and more like blood newly spilled.  Then he trembled.  Had it been merely vanity that had made him do his one good deed?  Or the desire for a new sensation, as Lord Henry had hinted, with his mocking laugh?  Or that passion to act a part that sometimes makes us do things finer than we are ourselves?  Or, perhaps, all these?  And why was the red stain larger than it had been?  It seemed to have crept like a horrible disease over the wrinkled fingers.  There was blood on the painted feet, as though the thing had dripped—­blood even on the hand that had not held the knife.  Confess?  Did it mean that he was to confess?  To give himself up and be put to death?  He laughed.  He felt that the idea was monstrous.  Besides, even if he did confess, who would believe him?  There was no trace of the murdered man anywhere.  Everything belonging to him had been destroyed.  He himself had burned what had been below-stairs.  The world would simply say that he was mad.  They would shut him up if he persisted in his story. . . .  Yet it was his duty to confess, to suffer public shame, and to make public atonement.  There was a God who called upon men to tell their sins to earth as well as to heaven.  Nothing that he could do would