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"I will try to be there, Harry," he said, leaving the room. As he

drove back to his own house, he was conscious that the sense of

terror he thought he had strangled had come back to him. Lord

Henry's casual questioning had made him lose his nerve for the

moment, and he wanted his nerve still. Things that were dangerous

had to be destroyed. He winced. He hated the idea of even

touching them.

Yet it had to be done. He realized that, and when he had locked

the door of his library, he opened the secret press into which he

had thrust Basil Hallward's coat and bag. A huge fire was

blazing. He piled another log on it. The smell of the singeing

clothes and burning leather was horrible. It took him

three-quarters of an hour to consume everything. At the end he

felt faint and sick, and having lit some Algerian pastilles in a

pierced copper brazier, he bathed his hands and forehead with a

cool musk-scented vinegar.