After a little time he heard steps in the passage and the chain being unhooked.  The door opened quietly, and he went in without saying a word to the squat misshapen figure that flattened itself into the shadow as he passed.  At the end of the hall hung a tattered green curtain that swayed and shook in the gusty wind which had followed him in from the street.  He dragged it aside and entered a long low room which looked as if it had once been a third-rate dancing-saloon.  Shrill flaring gas-jets, dulled and distorted in the fly-blown mirrors that faced them, were ranged round the walls.  Greasy reflectors of ribbed tin backed them, making quivering disks of light.  The floor was covered with ochre-coloured sawdust, trampled here and there into mud, and stained with dark rings of spilled liquor.  Some Malays were crouching by a little charcoal stove, playing with bone counters and showing their white teeth as they chattered.  In one corner, with his head buried in his arms, a sailor sprawled over a table, and by the tawdrily painted bar that ran across one complete side stood two haggard women, mocking an old man who was brushing the sleeves of his coat with an expression of disgust.  “He thinks he’s got red ants on him,” laughed one of them, as Dorian passed by.  The man looked at her in terror and began to whimper.

At the end of the room there was a little staircase, leading to a darkened chamber.  As Dorian hurried up its three rickety steps, the heavy odour of opium met him.  He heaved a deep breath, and his nostrils quivered with pleasure.  When he entered, a young man with smooth yellow hair, who was bending over a lamp lighting a long thin pipe, looked up at him and nodded in a hesitating manner.

“You here, Adrian?” muttered Dorian.

“Where else should I be?” he answered, listlessly.  “None of the chaps will speak to me now.”

“I thought you had left England.”

“Darlington is not going to do anything.  My brother paid the bill at last.  George doesn’t speak to me either. . . .  I don’t care,” he added with a sigh.  “As long as one has this stuff, one doesn’t want friends.  I think I have had too many friends.”

Dorian winced and looked round at the grotesque things that lay in such fantastic postures on the ragged mattresses.  The twisted limbs, the gaping mouths, the staring lustreless eyes, fascinated him.  He knew in what strange heavens they were suffering, and what dull hells were teaching them the secret of some new joy.  They were better off than he was.  He was prisoned in thought.  Memory, like a horrible malady, was eating his soul away.  From time to time he seemed to see the eyes of Basil Hallward looking at him.  Yet he felt he could not stay.  The presence of Adrian Singleton troubled him.  He wanted to be where no one would know who he was.  He wanted to escape from himself.

“I am going on to the other place,” he said after a pause.