again. The murdered man's head fell forwards, and the blood
ran slowly across the table, and down onto the floor.
Dorian stood and listened. He could hear nothing - only
the drip, drip of blood onto the floor. He went to the window
and looked down into the street. He felt strangely calm. The
friend who had painted his portrait had gone out of his life.
That was all.
He locked the door behind him and went quietly downstairs.
His servants were all in bed. He sat down and began to think.
No one had seen Basil in Dorian's house tonight. Paris. Yes!
Basil had gone to Paris, of course, so it would be six months
before people asked where he was. Six months! That was
more than enough time.
Dorian walked up and down the room. Then he took out a
book from his desk and began to search for a name. Alan
Campbell. Yes, that was the name that he wanted.