How quickly it had all been done!  He felt strangely calm, and, walking over to the window, opened it, and stepped out on the balcony.  The wind had blown the fog away, and the sky was like a monstrous peacock’s tail, starred with myriads of golden eyes.  He looked down, and saw the policeman going his rounds and flashing a bull’s-eye lantern on the doors of the silent houses.  The crimson spot of a prowling hansom gleamed at the corner, and then vanished.  A woman in a ragged shawl was creeping round by the railings, staggering as she went.  Now and then she stopped, and peered back.  Once, she began to sing in a hoarse voice.  The policeman strolled over and said something to her.  She stumbled away, laughing.  A bitter blast swept across the Square.  The gas-lamps flickered, and became blue, and the leafless trees shook their black iron branches as if in pain.  He shivered, and went back, closing the window behind him.

He passed to the door, turned the key, and opened it.  He did not even glance at the murdered man.  He felt that the secret of the whole thing was not to realize the situation.  The friend who had painted [85] the fatal portrait, the portrait to which all his misery had been due, had gone out of his life.  That was enough.

Then he remembered the lamp.  It was a rather curious one of Moorish workmanship, made of dull silver inlaid with arabesques of burnished steel.  Perhaps it might be missed by his servant, and questions would be asked.  He turned back, and took it from the table.  How still the man was!  How horribly white the long hands looked!  He was like a dreadful wax image.

He locked the door behind him, and crept quietly down-stairs.  The wood-work creaked, and seemed to cry out as if in pain.  He stopped several times, and waited.  No:  everything was still.  It was merely the sound of his own footsteps.

When he reached the library, he saw the bag and coat in the corner.  They must be hidden away somewhere.  He unlocked a secret press that was in the wainscoting, and put them into it.  He could easily burn them afterwards.  Then he pulled out his watch.  It was twenty minutes to two.

He sat down, and began to think.  Every year—­every month, almost—­ men were strangled in England for what he had done.  There had been a madness of murder in the air.  Some red star had come too close to the earth.

Evidence?  What evidence was there against him?  Basil Hallward had left the house at eleven.  No one had seen him come in again.  Most of the servants were at Selby Royal.  His valet had gone to bed.

Paris!  Yes.  It was to Paris that Basil had gone, by the midnight train, as he had intended.  With his curious reserved habits, it would be months before any suspicions would be aroused.  Months?  Everything could be destroyed long before then.

A sudden thought struck him.  He put on his fur coat and hat, and went out into the hall.  There he paused, hearing the slow heavy tread of the policeman outside on the pavement, and seeing the flash of the lantern reflected in the window.  He waited, holding his breath.