ripe time, a time of shallow moods and
sickly thoughts. Why had he worn its livery? Youth had spoiled him.

It was better not to think of the past. Nothing could alter that. It was
of himself, and of his own future, that he had to think. James Vane was
hidden in a nameless grave in Selby churchyard. Alan Campbell had shot
himself one night in his laboratory, but had not revealed the secret
that he had been forced to know. The excitement, such as it was, over
Basil Hallward's disappearance would soon pass away. It was already
waning. He was perfectly safe there. Nor, indeed, was it the death of
Basil Hallward that weighed most upon his mind. It was the living death
of his own soul that troubled 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 spilt. Then he trembled. Had it been
merely