“Always glad to have a rest, Mr. Gray,” answered the frame-maker, who was still gasping for breath.  “Where shall we put it, sir?”

“Oh, anywhere.  Here:  this will do.  I don’t want to have it hung up.  Just lean it against the wall.  Thanks.”

“Might one look at the work of art, sir?”

Dorian started.  “It would not interest you, Mr. Hubbard,” he said, keeping his eye on the man.  He felt ready to leap upon him and fling him to the ground if he dared to lift the gorgeous hanging that concealed the secret of his life.  “I shan’t trouble you any more now.  I am much obliged for your kindness in coming round.”

“Not at all, not at all, Mr. Gray.  Ever ready to do anything for you, sir.”  And Mr. Hubbard tramped downstairs, followed by the assistant, who glanced back at Dorian with a look of shy wonder in his rough uncomely face.  He had never seen any one so marvellous.

When the sound of their footsteps had died away, Dorian locked the door and put the key in his pocket.  He felt safe now.  No one would ever look upon the horrible thing.  No eye but his would ever see his shame.

On reaching the library, he found that it was just after five o’clock and that the tea had been already brought up.  On a little table of dark perfumed wood thickly incrusted with nacre, a present from Lady Radley, his guardian’s wife, a pretty professional invalid who had spent the preceding winter in Cairo, was lying a note from Lord Henry, and beside it was a book bound in yellow paper, the cover slightly torn and the edges soiled.  A copy of the third edition of The St. James’s Gazette had been placed on the tea-tray.  It was evident that Victor had returned.  He wondered if he had met the men in the hall as they were leaving the house and had wormed out of them what they had been doing.  He would be sure to miss the picture—­had no doubt missed it already, while he had been laying the tea-things.  The screen had not been set back, and a blank space was visible on the wall.  Perhaps some night he might find him creeping upstairs and trying to force the door of the room.  It was a horrible thing to have a spy in one’s house.  He had heard of rich men who had been blackmailed all their lives by some servant who had read a letter, or overheard a conversation, or picked up a card with an address, or found beneath a pillow a withered flower or a shred of crumpled lace.

He sighed, and having poured himself out some tea, opened Lord Henry’s note.  It was simply to say that he sent him round the evening paper, and a book that might interest him, and that he would be at the club at eight-fifteen.  He opened The St. James’s languidly, and looked through it.  A red pencil-mark on the fifth page caught his eye.  It drew attention to the following paragraph: 

Inquest on an actress.—­An inquest was held this morning at the Bell Tavern, Hoxton Road, by Mr. Danby, the District Coroner, on the body of Sibyl Vane, a young actress recently engaged at the Royal Theatre, Holborn.  A verdict of death by misadventure was returned.  Considerable sympathy was expressed for the mother of the deceased, who was greatly affected during the giving of her own evidence, and that of Dr. Birrell, who had made the post-mortem examination of the deceased.