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The dim roar of London was like the bourdon note of a distant

organ.

In the centre of the room, clamped to an upright easel, stood the

full-length portrait of a young man of extraordinary personal

beauty, and in front of it, some little distance away, was

sitting the artist himself, Basil Hallward, whose sudden

disappearance some years ago caused, at the time, such public

excitement and gave rise to so many strange conjectures.

As the painter looked at the gracious and comely form he had so

skilfully mirrored in his art, a smile of pleasure passed across

his face, and seemed about to linger there. But he suddenly

started up, and closing his eyes, placed his fingers upon the

lids, as though he sought to imprison within his brain some

curious dream from which he feared he might awake.