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Having reached the door, he 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 the fatal 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, and studded with coarse turquoises. Perhaps

it might be missed by his servant, and questions would be asked.

He hesitated for a moment, then he turned back and took it from

the table. He could not help seeing the dead thing. How still it

was! How horribly white the long hands looked! It was like a

dreadful wax image.

Having locked the door behind him, he crept quietly downstairs.

The woodwork 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.