CHAPTER XX.

ostainleftuponit.Itwasbright,andglistened.Asithadkilledthepainter,soitwouldkillthepainter’swork,andallthatthatmeant.Itwouldkillthepast,andwhenthatwasdead,hewouldbefree.Itwouldkillthismonstroussoul-life,andwithoutitshideouswarnings,hewouldbeatpeace.Heseizedthething,andstabbedthepicturewithit. Therewasacryheard,andacrash.Thecrywassohorribleinitsagonythatthefrightenedservantswokeandcreptoutoftheirrooms.Twogentlemen,whowerepassinginthesquarebelow,stoppedandlookedupatthegreathouse.Theywalkedontilltheymetapolicemanandbroughthimback.Themanrangthebellseveraltimes,buttherewasnoanswer.Exceptforalightinoneofthetopwindows,thehousewasalldark.Afteratime,hewentawayandstoodinanadjoiningporticoandwatched. “Whosehouseisthat,Constable?”askedtheelderofthetwogentlemen. “Mr.DorianGray’s,sir,”answeredthepoliceman. Theylookedateachother,astheywalkedaway,andsneered.OneofthemwasSirHenryAshton’suncle. Inside,intheservants’partofthehouse,thehalf-claddomesticsweretalkinginlowwhisperstoeachother.OldMrs.Leafwascryingandwringingherhands.Franciswasaspaleasdeath. Afteraboutaquarterofanhour,hegotthecoachmanandoneofthefootmenandcreptupstairs.Theyknocked,buttherewasnoreply.Theycalledout.Everythingwasstill.Finally,aftervainlytryingtoforcethedoor,theygotontheroofanddroppeddownontothebalcony.Thewindowsyieldedeasily—theirboltswereold. Whentheyentered,theyfoundhanginguponthewallasplendidportraitoftheirmasterastheyhadlastseenhim,inallthewonderofhisexquisiteyouthandbeauty.Lyingonthefloorwasadeadman,ineveningdress,withaknifeinhisheart.Hewaswithered,wrinkled,andloathsomeofvisage.Itwasnottilltheyhadexaminedtheringsthattheyrecognizedwhoitwas. THEEND