sorry to have had to wake you up, Francis," he said, stepping in;
"but I had forgotten my latch-key. What time is it?"

"Ten minutes past two, sir," answered the man, looking at the clock and
blinking.

"Ten minutes past two? How horribly late! You must wake me at nine
to-morrow. I have some work to do."

"All right, sir."

"Did anyone call this evening?"

"Mr. Hallward, sir. He stayed here till eleven, and then he went away to
catch his train."

"Oh! I am sorry I didn't see him. Did he leave any message?"

"No, sir, except that he would write to you from Paris, if he did not
find you at the club."

"That will do, Francis. Don't forget to call me at nine to-morrow."

"No, sir."

The man shambled down the passage in his slippers.

Dorian Gray threw his hat and coat upon the table, and passed into the
library. For a quarter of an hour he walked up and down the room biting
his lip, and thinking. Then he took down the Blue Book from one of the
shelves, and began to turn over the leaves. "Alan Campbell, 152,
Hertford Street, Mayfair." Yes; that was the man he wanted.

CHAPTER XIV

At nine o'clock the next morning his servant came in with a cup of
chocolate on a tray, and opened the shutters. Dorian was sleeping quite
peacefully, lying on his right side, with one hand underneath his cheek.
He looked like a boy who had been tired out with play, or study.

The man had to touch him twice on the shoulder before he woke, and as he
opened his eyes a faint smile passed across his lips, as though he had
been lost in some delightful dream. Yet he had not dreamed at all. His
night had been untroubled by any images of pleasure or of pain. But
youth smiles without any reason. It is one of its chiefest charms.

He turned round, and, leaning upon his elbow, began to sip his
chocolate. The mellow November sun came streaming into the room. The sky
was bright, and there was a genial warmth in the air. It was almost like
a morning in May.

Gradually the events of the preceding night crept with silent
blood-stained feet into his brain, and reconstructed themselves there
with terrible distinctness. He winced at the memory of all that he had
suffered, and for a moment the same curious feeling of loathing for
Basil Hallward that had made him kill him as he sat in the chair, came
back to him, and he grew cold with passion. The dead man was still
sitting there, too, and in the sunlight now. How horrible that was! Such
hi