Had it been merely vanity that had made him do his one good deed?
Or the desire for a new sensation, as Lord Henry had hinted, with his mocking laugh?
Or that passion to act a part that sometimes makes us do things finer than we are ourselves?
Or, perhaps, all these?
And why was the red stain larger than it had been?
It seemed to have crept like a horrible disease over the wrinkled fingers.

There was blood on the painted feet, as though the thing had dripped--blood even on the hand that had not held the knife.

Confess?
Did it mean that he was to confess?
To give himself up and be put to death?
He laughed.

He felt that the idea was monstrous.

Besides, even if he did confess, who would believe him?
There was no trace of the murdered man anywhere.
Everything belonging to him had been destroyed.