key, and opened it. He did not
even glance at the murdered man. He felt that the secret of the whole
thing was not to realise the situation. The friend who had painted the
fatal portrait to which all his misery had been due, had gone out of his
life. That was enough.

Then he remembered the lamp. It was a rather curious one of Moorish
workmanship, made of dull silver inlaid with arabesques of burnished
steel, and studded with coarse turquoises. Perhaps it might be missed by
his servant, and questions would be asked. He hesitated for a moment,
then he turned back and took it from the table. He could not help seeing
the dead thing. How still it was! How horribly white the long hands
looked! It was like a dreadful wax image.

Having locked the door behind him, he crept quietly downstairs. The
woodwork creaked, and seemed to cry out as if in pain. He stopped
several times, and waited. No: everything was still. It was merely the
sound of his own footsteps.

When he reached the library, he saw the bag and coat in the corner. They
must be hidden away somewhere. He unlocked a secret press that was in
the wainscoting, a press in which he kept his own curious disguises, and
put them into it. He could easily burn them afterwards. Then he pulled
out his watch. It was twenty minutes to two.

He sat down, and began to think. Every year--every month, almost--men
were strangled in England for what he had done. There had been a madness
of murder in the air. Some red star had come too close to the earth....
And yet what evidence was there against him? Basil Hallward had left the
house at eleven. No one had seen him come in again. Most of the servants
were at Selby Royal. His valet had gone to bed.... Paris! Yes. It was to
Paris that Basil had gone, and by the midnight train, as he had
intended. With his curious reserved habits, it would be months before
any suspicions would be aroused. Months! Everything could be destroyed
long before then.

A sudden thought struck him. He put on his fur coat and hat, and went
out into the hall. There he paused, hearing the slow heavy tread of the
policeman on the pavement outside, and seeing the flash of the
bull's-eye reflected in the window. He waited, and held his breath.

After a few moments he drew back the latch, and slipped out, shutting
the door very gently behind him. Then he began ringing the bell. In
about five minutes his valet appeared half dressed, and looking very
drowsy.

"I am