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What was youth at best? A green, an unripe time, a time of

shallow moods, and sickly thoughts. Why had he worn its livery?

Youth had spoiled him.

It was better not to think of the past. Nothing could alter that.

It was of himself, and of his own future, that he had to think.

James Vane was hidden in a nameless grave in Selby churchyard.

Alan Campbell had shot himself one night in his laboratory, but

had not revealed the secret that he had been forced to know. The

excitement, such as it was, over Basil Hallward's disappearance

would soon pass away. It was already waning. He was perfectly

safe there. Nor, indeed, was it the death of Basil Hallward that

weighed most upon his mind. It was the living death of his own

soul that troubled him. Basil had painted the portrait that had

marred his life. He could not forgive him that. It was the

portrait that had done everything. Basil had said things to him

that were unbearable, and that he had yet borne with patience.

The murder had been simply the madness of a moment. As for Alan

Campbell, his suicide had been his own act. He had chosen to do

it. It was nothing to him.