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What was that loathsome red dew that gleamed, wet and glistening,

on one of the hands, as though the canvas had sweated blood? How

horrible it was!-more horrible, it seemed to him for the moment,

than the silent thing that he knew was stretched across the

table, the thing whose grotesque misshapen shadow on the spotted

carpet showed him that it had not stirred, but was still there,

as he had left it.

He heaved a deep breath, opened the door a little wider, and with

half-closed eyes and averted head, walked quickly in, determined

that he would not look even once upon the dead man. Then,

stooping down and taking up the gold-and-purple hanging, he flung

it right over the picture.