CHAPTER XX.

newithpatience.Themurderhadbeensimplythemadnessofamoment.AsforAlanCampbell,hissuicidehadbeenhisownact.Hehadchosentodoit.Itwasnothingtohim. Anewlife!Thatwaswhathewanted.Thatwaswhathewaswaitingfor.Surelyhehadbegunitalready.Hehadsparedoneinnocentthing,atanyrate.Hewouldneveragaintemptinnocence.Hewouldbegood. AshethoughtofHettyMerton,hebegantowonderiftheportraitinthelockedroomhadchanged.Surelyitwasnotstillsohorribleasithadbeen?Perhapsifhislifebecamepure,hewouldbeabletoexpeleverysignofevilpassionfromtheface.Perhapsthesignsofevilhadalreadygoneaway.Hewouldgoandlook. Hetookthelampfromthetableandcreptupstairs.Asheunbarredthedoor,asmileofjoyflittedacrosshisstrangelyyoung-lookingfaceandlingeredforamomentabouthislips.Yes,hewouldbegood,andthehideousthingthathehadhiddenawaywouldnolongerbeaterrortohim.Hefeltasiftheloadhadbeenliftedfromhimalready. Hewentinquietly,lockingthedoorbehindhim,aswashiscustom,anddraggedthepurplehangingfromtheportrait.Acryofpainandindignationbrokefromhim.Hecouldseenochange,savethatintheeyestherewasalookofcunningandinthemouththecurvedwrinkleofthehypocrite.Thethingwasstillloathsome—moreloathsome,ifpossible,thanbefore—andthescarletdewthatspottedthehandseemedbrighter,andmorelikebloodnewlyspilled.Thenhetrembled.Haditbeenmerelyvanitythathadmadehimdohisonegooddeed?Orthedesireforanewsensation,asLordHenryhadhinted,withhismockinglaugh?Orthatpassiontoactapartthatsometimesmakesusdothingsfinerthanweareourselves?Or,perhaps,allthese?Andwhywastheredstainlargerthanithadbeen?Itseemedtohavecreptlikeahorriblediseaseoverthewrinkledfingers.Therewasbloodonthepaintedfeet,asthoughthethinghaddripped—bloodevenonthehandthathadnotheldthekni