oo brief to take the burden of
another's errors on one's shoulders. Each man lived his own life, and
paid his own price for living it. The only pity was one had to pay so
often for a single fault. One had to pay over and over again, indeed. In
her dealings with man Destiny never closed her accounts.

There are moments, psychologists tell us, when the passion for sin, or
for what the world calls sin, so dominates a nature, that every fibre of
the body, as every cell of the brain, seems to be instinct with fearful
impulses. Men and women at such moments lose the freedom of their will.
They move to their terrible end as automatons move, Choice is taken from
them, and conscience is either killed, or, if it lives at all, lives but
to give rebellion its fascination, and disobedience its charm. For all
sins, as theologians weary not of reminding us, are sins of
disobedience. When that high spirit, that morning-star of evil, fell
from heaven, it was as a rebel that he fell.

Callous, concentrated on evil, with stained mind, and soul hungry for
rebellion, Dorian Gray hastened on, quickening his step as he went, but
as he darted aside into a dim archway, that had served him often as a
short cut to the ill-famed place where he was going, he felt himself
suddenly seized from behind, and before he had time to defend himself he
was thrust back against the wall, with a brutal hand round his throat.

He struggled madly for life, and by a terrible effort wrenched the
tightening fingers away. In a second he heard the click of a revolver,
and saw the gleam of a polished barrel pointing straight at his head,
and the dusky form of a short thick-set man facing him.

"What do you want?" he gasped.

"Keep quiet," said the man. "If you stir, I shoot you."

"You are mad. What have I done to you?"

"You wrecked the life of Sibyl Vane," was the answer, "and Sibyl Vane
was my sister. She killed herself. I know it. Her death is at your door.
I swore I would kill you in return. For years I have sought you. I had
no clue, no trace. The two people who could have described you were
dead. I knew nothing of you but the pet name she used to call you. I
heard it to-night by chance. Make your peace with God, for to-night you
are going to die."

Dorian Gray grew sick with fear. "I never knew her," he stammered. "I
never heard of her. You are mad."

"You had better confess your sin, for as sure as I am James Vane, you
are going to die." There was a h