me money, sir--not much, and a six-shooter. There was no name of any
kind. A decent-looking man, sir, but rough-like. A sort of sailor, we
think."

Dorian started to his feet. A terrible hope fluttered past him. He
clutched at it madly. "Where is the body?" he exclaimed. "Quick! I must
see it at once."

"It is in an empty stable in the Home Farm, sir. The folk don't like to
have that sort of thing in their houses. They say a corpse brings bad
luck."

"The Home Farm! Go there at once and meet me. Tell one of the grooms to
bring my horse round. No. Never mind. I'll go to the stables myself. It
will save time."

In less than a quarter of an hour Dorian Gray was galloping down the
long avenue as hard as he could go. The trees seemed to sweep past him
in spectral procession, and wild shadows to fling themselves across his
path. Once the mare swerved at a white gate-post and nearly threw him.
He lashed her across the neck with his crop. She cleft the dusky air
like an arrow. The stones flew from her hoofs.

At last he reached the Home Farm. Two men were loitering in the yard. He
leapt from the saddle and threw the reins to one of them. In the
farthest stable a light was glimmering. Something seemed to tell him
that the body was there, and he hurried to the door, and put his hand
upon the latch.

There he paused for a moment, feeling that he was on the brink of a
discovery that would either make or mar his life. Then he thrust the
door open, and entered.

On a heap of sacking in the far corner was lying the dead body of a man
dressed in a coarse shirt and a pair of blue trousers. A spotted
handkerchief had been placed over the face. A coarse candle, stuck in a
bottle, sputtered beside it.

Dorian Gray shuddered. He felt that his could not be the hand to take
the handkerchief away, and called out to one of the farm-servants to
come to him.

"Take that thing off the face. I wish to see it," he said, clutching at
the doorpost for support.

When the farm-servant had done so, he stepped forward. A cry of joy
broke from his lips. The man who had been shot in the thicket was James
Vane.

He stood there for some minutes looking at the dead body. As he rode
home, his eyes were full of tears, for he knew he was safe.

CHAPTER XIX

"There is no use your telling me that you are going to be good," cried
Lord Henry, dipping his white fingers into a red copper bowl filled with
rose-water. "You're quite perfect. Pra