hand trembled somewhat as I placed on his easel a square piece of new
canvas. This done, I waited patiently. A step on the stairs rewarded me.
It was Colensoe walking again. His speech was louder this time, and more
impressively distinct; his dream was evidently more agonizing than the
night before. If he would only follow out the promptings of that
dream--if he would but work to-night--to-night! I watched him
breathlessly. He wandered about the room for some time, then suddenly,
as though impelled by some mysterious force within, crossed to the
cupboard where he kept his tools, took out his materials and walked to
the canvas.

"Huntingdon--Huntingdon!" he cried, and the first lines of his
everlasting vision were written on the hitherto untouched canvas. It was
the outline of a man's face! For two hours he worked, and then,
replacing his brushes and palette, went to bed. I took the canvas away.
Night after night for ten days I placed the canvas in position. Night
after night the artist got nearer to accomplishing his own condemnation.
And as the picture grew more like the man he had murdered, so his dream
became more intense. His features showed that. The rapidity of his brush
revealed the rush of thoughts within, of an anxiety to complete his
task. Never was such a true portrait painted, and when on the last night
he put the finishing touches to it, the face of Huntingdon seemed to
live on the canvas. It was the face which existed in the brain of the
painter. The last night's work was done. The sleeping man turned from
his easel and went to his bedroom once more.

The morrow would tell me if Colensoe was guilty. I had little doubt of
it in my own mind--but he should say so himself when waking as he had
condemned himself whilst sleeping. I would take him to the studio and
confront him with his own testimony. He should see the face of the man
whose life he had taken, painted with his own hands. He was later than
usual in coming down that morning. I left the breakfast-room with the
intention of calling him, when, just as I got into the passage, I saw
him at the top of the stairs. His hat was on. His face was ghastly pale,
every feature was working. His eyes betokened some mad intention--their
gaze appeared to kill. He almost flew down the stairs.

"Don't stop me," he cried. "I must go into the open. I want God's air.
Let me go now--let me go, only for a little while!"

"Colensoe," I said, catching him by the arm, "wh