The picture itself--that
was evidence. He would destroy it. Why had he kept it so long? Once
it had given him pleasure to watch it changing and growing old. Of
late he had felt no such pleasure. It had kept him awake at night.
When he had been away, he had been filled with terror lest other eyes
should look upon it. It had brought melancholy across his passions.
Its mere memory had marred many moments of joy. It had been like
conscience to him. Yes, it had been conscience. He would destroy it.

He looked round and saw the knife that had stabbed Basil Hallward. He
had cleaned it many times, till there was no stain left upon it. It
was bright, and glistened. As it had killed the painter, so it would
kill the painter's work, and all that that meant. It would kill the
past, and when that was dead, he would be free. It would kill this
monstrous soul-life, and without its hideous warnings, he would be at
peace. He seized the thing, and stabbed the picture with it.

There was a cry heard, and a crash. The cry was so horrible in its
agony that the frightened servants woke and crept out of their rooms.
Two gentlemen, who were passing in the square below, stopped and looked
up at the great house. They walked on till they met a policeman and
brought him back. The man rang the bell several times, but there was
no answer. Except for a light in one of the top windows, the house was
all dark. After a time, he went away and stood in an adjoining portico
and watched.

"Whose house is that, Constable?" asked the elder of the two gentlemen.

"Mr. Dorian Gray's, sir," answered the policeman.

They looked at each other, as they walked away, and sneered. One of
them was Sir Henry Ashton's uncle.

Inside, in the servants' part of the house, the half-clad domestics
were talking in low whispers to each other. Old Mrs. Leaf was crying
and wringing her hands. Francis was as pale as death.

After about a quarter of an hour, he got the coachman and one of the
footmen and crept upstairs. They knocked, but there was no reply.
They called out. Everything was still. Finally, after vainly trying
to force the door, they got on the roof and dropped down on to the
balcony. The windows yielded easily--their bolts were old.

When they entered, they found hanging upon the wall a splendid portrait
of their master as they had last seen him, in all the wonder of his
exquisite youth and beauty. Lying on the floor was a dead m