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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
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
cleanse
him
till
he
had
told
his
own
sin
.
His
sin
?
He
shrugged
his
shoulders
.
The
death
of
Basil
Hallward
seemed
very
little
to
him
.
He
was
thinking
of
Hetty
Merton
.
For
it
was
an
unjust
mirror
,
this
mirror
of
his
soul
that
he
was
looking
at
.
Vanity
?
Curiosity
?
Hypocrisy
?
Had
there
been
nothing
more
in
his
renunciation
than
that
?
There
had
been
something
more
.
At
least
he
thought
so
.
But
who
could
tell
?
...
No
.
There
had
been
nothing
more
.
Through
vanity
he
had
spared
her
.
In
hypocrisy
he
had
worn
the
mask
of
goodness
.
For
curiosity
's
sake
he
had
tried
the
denial
of
self
.
He
recognised
that
now
.
But
this
murder
--
was
it
to
dog
him
all
his
life
?
Was
he
always
to
be
burdened
by
his
past
?
Was
he
really
to
confess
?
Never
.
There
was
only
one
bit
of
evidence
left
against
him
.
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
.
