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But perhaps it had been only his fancy that had called vengeance

out of the night and set the hideous shapes of punishment before

him. Actual life was chaos, but there was something terribly

logical in the imagination. It was the imagination that set

remorse to dog the feet of sin. It was the imagination that made

each crime bear its misshapen brood. In the common world of fact

the wicked were not punished, nor the good rewarded. Success was

given to the strong, failure thrust upon the weak. That was all.

Besides, had any stranger been prowling round the house, he would

have been seen by the servants or the keepers. Had any foot-marks

been found on the flower-beds, the gardeners would have reported

it. Yes, it had been merely fancy. Sibyl Vane's brother had not

come back to kill him. He had sailed away in his ship to founder

in some winter sea. From him, at any rate, he was safe. Why, the

man did not know who he was, could not know who he was. The mask

of youth had saved him.