“All right, Dorian.  I dare say I shall see you to-morrow at tea-time.  The duchess is coming.”

“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 nerves 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.

Suddenly he started.  His eyes grew strangely bright, and he gnawed nervously at his underlip.  Between two of the windows stood a large Florentine cabinet, made out of ebony and inlaid with ivory and blue lapis.  He watched it as though it were a thing that could fascinate and make afraid, as though it held something that he longed for and yet almost loathed.  His breath quickened.  A mad craving came over him.  He lit a cigarette and then threw it away.  His eyelids drooped till the long fringed lashes almost touched his cheek.  But he still watched the cabinet.  At last he got up from the sofa on which he had been lying, went over to it, and having unlocked it, touched some hidden spring.  A triangular drawer passed slowly out.  His fingers moved instinctively towards it, dipped in, and closed on something.  It was a small Chinese box of black and gold-dust lacquer, elaborately wrought, the sides patterned with curved waves, and the silken cords hung with round crystals and tasselled in plaited metal threads.  He opened it.  Inside was a green paste, waxy in lustre, the odour curiously heavy and persistent.

He hesitated for some moments, with a strangely immobile smile upon his face.  Then shivering, though the atmosphere of the room was terribly hot, he drew himself up and glanced at the clock.  It was twenty minutes to twelve.  He put the box back, shutting the cabinet doors as he did so, and went into his bedroom.

As midnight was striking bronze blows upon the dusky air, Dorian Gray, dressed commonly, and with a muffler wrapped round his throat, crept quietly out of his house.  In Bond Street he found a hansom with a good horse.  He hailed it and in a low voice gave the driver an address.

The man shook his head.  “It is too far for me,” he muttered.

“Here is a sovereign for you,” said Dorian.  “You shall have another if you drive fast.”