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He looked round and saw the knife that had stabbed Basil

Hallward. He had cleaned it many times, till there was no stain

left upon it. It was bright, and glistened. As it had killed the

painter, so it would kill the painter's work, and all that that

meant. It would kill the past, and when that was dead, he would

be free. It would kill this monstrous soul-life, and without its

hideous warnings, he would be at peace. He seized the thing, and

stabbed the picture with it.

There was a cry heard, and a crash. The cry was so horrible in

its agony that the frightened servants woke and crept out of

their rooms. Two gentlemen, who were passing in the square below,

stopped and looked up at the great house. They walked on till

they met a policeman and brought him back. The man rang the bell

several times, but there was no answer. Except for a light in one

of the top windows, the house was all dark. After a time, he went

away and stood in an adjoining portico and watched.