“Don’t know who he is?” said Dorian, listlessly.  “What do you mean?  Wasn’t he one of your men?”

“No, sir.  Never saw him before.  Seems like a sailor, sir.”

The pen dropped from Dorian Gray’s hand, and he felt as if his heart had suddenly stopped beating.  “A sailor?” he cried out.  “Did you say a sailor?”

“Yes, sir.  He looks as if he had been a sort of sailor; tattooed on both arms, and that kind of thing.”

“Was there anything found on him?” said Dorian, leaning forward and looking at the man with startled eyes.  “Anything that would tell his name?”

“Some money, sir—­not much, and a six-shooter.  There was no name of any kind.  A decent-looking man, sir, but rough-like.  A sort of sailor we think.”

Dorian started to his feet.  A terrible hope fluttered past him.  He clutched at it madly.  “Where is the body?” he exclaimed.  “Quick!  I must see it at once.”

“It is in an empty stable in the Home Farm, sir.  The folk don’t like to have that sort of thing in their houses.  They say a corpse brings bad luck.”

“The Home Farm!  Go there at once and meet me.  Tell one of the grooms to bring my horse round.  No.  Never mind.  I’ll go to the stables myself.  It will save time.”

In less than a quarter of an hour, Dorian Gray was galloping down the long avenue as hard as he could go.  The trees seemed to sweep past him in spectral procession, and wild shadows to fling themselves across his path.  Once the mare swerved at a white gate-post and nearly threw him.  He lashed her across the neck with his crop.  She cleft the dusky air like an arrow.  The stones flew from her hoofs.

At last he reached the Home Farm.  Two men were loitering in the yard.  He leaped from the saddle and threw the reins to one of them.  In the farthest stable a light was glimmering.  Something seemed to tell him that the body was there, and he hurried to the door and put his hand upon the latch.

There he paused for a moment, feeling that he was on the brink of a discovery that would either make or mar his life.  Then he thrust the door open and entered.

On a heap of sacking in the far corner was lying the dead body of a man dressed in a coarse shirt and a pair of blue trousers.  A spotted handkerchief had been placed over the face.  A coarse candle, stuck in a bottle, sputtered beside it.

Dorian Gray shuddered.  He felt that his could not be the hand to take the handkerchief away, and called out to one of the farm-servants to come to him.

“Take that thing off the face.  I wish to see it,” he said, clutching at the door-post for support.

When the farm-servant had done so, he stepped forward.  A cry of joy broke from his lips.  The man who had been shot in the thicket was James Vane.

He stood there for some minutes looking at the dead body.  As he rode home, his eyes were full of tears, for he knew he was safe.