Chapter 16

14 min

A cold rain began to fall, and the blurred street-lamps looked ghastly in the dripping mist. The public-houses were just closing, and dim men and women were clustering in broken groups round their doors. From some of the bars came the sound of horrible laughter. In others, drunkards brawled and screamed.

A cold rain began to fall, and the blurred streetlights looked ghostly in the damp mist. The pubs were just closing, and shadowy men and women gathered in scattered groups around their doors. Horrible laughter came from some of the bars. In others, drunk people fought and screamed.

Lying back in the hansom, with his hat pulled over his forehead, Dorian Gray watched with listless eyes the sordid shame of the great city, and now and then he repeated to himself the words that Lord Henry had said to him on the first day they had met, “To cure the soul by means of the senses, and the senses by means of the soul.” Yes, that was the secret. He had often tried it, and would try it again now. There were opium dens where one could buy oblivion, dens of horror where the memory of old sins could be destroyed by the madness of sins that were new.

Dorian Gray leaned back in the hansom cab, his hat pulled over his forehead. With tired eyes, he watched the filthy, shameful sights of the great city. Now and then, he repeated the words Lord Henry had said on the day they first met: “To cure the soul through the senses, and the senses through the soul.” Yes, that was the secret. He had often tried it, and he would try it again now. There were opium dens where one could buy oblivion. In those dens of horror, the madness of new sins could destroy the memory of old ones.

The moon hung low in the sky like a yellow skull. From time to time a huge misshapen cloud stretched a long arm across and hid it. The gas-lamps grew fewer, and the streets more narrow and gloomy. Once the man lost his way and had to drive back half a mile. A steam rose from the horse as it splashed up the puddles. The sidewindows of the hansom were clogged with a grey-flannel mist.

The moon hung low in the sky like a yellow skull. Now and then, a huge, misshapen cloud stretched a long arm across the moon and hid it. The gas lamps became fewer, and the streets grew narrower and gloomier. Once, the man lost his way and had to drive back half a mile. Steam rose from the horse as it splashed through puddles. The side windows of the horse-drawn cab were covered in a mist like gray flannel.

“To cure the soul by means of the senses, and the senses by means of the soul!” How the words rang in his ears! His soul, certainly, was sick to death. Was it true that the senses could cure it? Innocent blood had been spilled. What could atone for that? Ah! for that there was no atonement; but though forgiveness was impossible, forgetfulness was possible still, and he was determined to forget, to stamp the thing out, to crush it as one would crush the adder that had stung one. Indeed, what right had Basil to have spoken to him as he had done? Who had made him a judge over others? He had said things that were dreadful, horrible, not to be endured.

“To cure the soul through the senses, and the senses through the soul!” How the words rang in his ears! His soul was certainly sick to death. Was it true that the senses could cure his soul? Innocent blood had been spilled. What could make up for that? Ah! Nothing could make up for it. But though forgiveness was impossible, he could still forget. He was determined to forget, to stamp out the memory. He would crush it as he would crush a snake that had bitten him. Besides, what right did Basil have to speak to him that way? Who had made Basil a judge over others? Basil had said dreadful, horrible things, things that were impossible to bear.

On and on plodded the hansom, going slower, it seemed to him, at each step. He thrust up the trap and called to the man to drive faster. The hideous hunger for opium began to gnaw at him. His throat burned and his delicate hands twitched nervously together. He struck at the horse madly with his stick. The driver laughed and whipped up. He laughed in answer, and the man was silent.

The hansom cab plodded on. To him, it seemed to move more slowly with every step. He pushed open the hatch and called to the driver to go faster. A terrible craving for opium began to gnaw at him. His throat burned, and his delicate hands twitched nervously together. He struck wildly at the horse with his stick. The driver laughed and urged the horse on with his whip. He laughed in response, and the driver fell silent.

The way seemed interminable, and the streets like the black web of some sprawling spider. The monotony became unbearable, and as the mist thickened, he felt afraid.

The journey seemed endless, and the streets looked like the black web of a sprawling spider. The sameness became unbearable, and as the mist grew thicker, he grew afraid.

Then they passed by lonely brickfields. The fog was lighter here, and he could see the strange, bottle-shaped kilns with their orange, fanlike tongues of fire. A dog barked as they went by, and far away in the darkness some wandering sea-gull screamed. The horse stumbled in a rut, then swerved aside and broke into a gallop.

Then they passed deserted brickfields. The fog was thinner here, and he could see the strange, bottle-shaped kilns. Orange flames spread from them like fans. A dog barked as they passed. Far away in the darkness, a wandering seagull screamed. The horse stumbled in a rut, then swerved aside and broke into a gallop.

After some time they left the clay road and rattled again over rough-paven streets. Most of the windows were dark, but now and then fantastic shadows were silhouetted against some lamplit blind. He watched them curiously. They moved like monstrous marionettes and made gestures like live things. He hated them. A dull rage was in his heart. As they turned a corner, a woman yelled something at them from an open door, and two men ran after the hansom for about a hundred yards. The driver beat at them with his whip.

After a while, they left the clay road and rattled over rough cobblestone streets again. Most windows were dark, but strange shadows appeared now and then against a lamp-lit window blind. He watched the shadows with curiosity. They moved like monstrous puppets and gestured like living things. He hated them. A dull rage filled his heart. As they turned a corner, a woman shouted something at them from an open doorway. Two men ran after the horse-drawn cab for about a hundred yards. The driver struck at them with his whip.

It is said that passion makes one think in a circle. Certainly with hideous iteration the bitten lips of Dorian Gray shaped and reshaped those subtle words that dealt with soul and sense, till he had found in them the full expression, as it were, of his mood, and justified, by intellectual approval, passions that without such justification would still have dominated his temper. From cell to cell of his brain crept the one thought; and the wild desire to live, most terrible of all man’s appetites, quickened into force each trembling nerve and fibre. Ugliness that had once been hateful to him because it made things real, became dear to him now for that very reason. Ugliness was the one reality. The coarse brawl, the loathsome den, the crude violence of disordered life, the very vileness of thief and outcast, were more vivid, in their intense actuality of impression, than all the gracious shapes of art, the dreamy shadows of song. They were what he needed for forgetfulness. In three days he would be free.

People say that passion makes a person think in circles. Dorian Gray’s bitten lips repeated those subtle words about soul and senses with a dreadful insistence. He repeated them until they seemed to express his mood completely. The words gave him intellectual approval for his passions. Without that approval, the passions would still have ruled his mood. One thought crept through every cell of his brain. His wild desire to live, the most terrible of all human appetites, stirred every trembling nerve and fiber into action. He had once hated ugliness because it made things real. Now he loved ugliness for that very reason. Ugliness was the only reality. A rough fight, a vile den, the raw violence of a life in disorder, even the wickedness of thieves and outcasts, made a more intensely real impression on him than all the graceful forms of art and the dreamlike shadows of song. These were what he needed to forget. In three days he would be free.

Suddenly the man drew up with a jerk at the top of a dark lane. Over the low roofs and jagged chimney-stacks of the houses rose the black masts of ships. Wreaths of white mist clung like ghostly sails to the yards.

Suddenly, the man came to a jerking stop at the top of a dark lane. The black masts of ships rose above the low roofs and jagged chimneys of the houses. Wisps of white mist clung to the ships’ horizontal spars like ghostly sails.

“Somewhere about here, sir, ain’t it?” he asked huskily through the trap.

“It's somewhere around here, sir, isn't it?” he asked in a husky voice through the trap.

Dorian started and peered round. “This will do,” he answered, and having got out hastily and given the driver the extra fare he had promised him, he walked quickly in the direction of the quay. Here and there a lantern gleamed at the stern of some huge merchantman. The light shook and splintered in the puddles. A red glare came from an outward-bound steamer that was coaling. The slimy pavement looked like a wet mackintosh.

Dorian started and looked around. “This will do,” he answered. He hurried out and paid the driver the extra fare he had promised him. Then he walked quickly toward the quay. Here and there, a lantern glowed at the stern of a huge merchant ship. The light shook and broke into fragments in the puddles. A red glow came from a departing steamship as it took on coal. The slimy pavement looked like a wet raincoat.

He hurried on towards the left, glancing back now and then to see if he was being followed. In about seven or eight minutes he reached a small shabby house that was wedged in between two gaunt factories. In one of the top-windows stood a lamp. He stopped and gave a peculiar knock.

He hurried to the left, glancing back now and then to see if anyone was following him. After about seven or eight minutes, he reached a small, shabby house squeezed between two bleak factories. A lamp stood in one of the upstairs windows. He stopped and knocked in a peculiar way.

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.

After a short time, he heard footsteps in the passage and the chain being unhooked. The door opened quietly, and he went in without speaking to the short, misshapen figure. It pressed itself into the shadows as he passed. At the end of the hall hung a torn green curtain. It swayed and shook in the gust of wind that had followed him in from the street. He pulled it aside and entered a long, low room. It looked as if it had once been a cheap dance hall. Hissing, flaring gaslights lined the walls. Their light looked dim and distorted in the fly-specked mirrors opposite them. Greasy, ribbed tin reflectors behind the gaslights made trembling disks of light. The floor was covered with yellow-brown sawdust, trampled into mud in places and stained with dark rings of spilled liquor. Some Malays crouched by a small charcoal stove, playing with bone counters. They showed their white teeth as they chatted. In one corner, a sailor lay sprawled over a table, his head buried in his arms. A gaudily painted bar ran along one whole side of the room. Beside it stood two haggard women, mocking an old man. He was brushing the sleeves of his coat with a look of disgust. “He thinks he’s got red ants on him,” one of them laughed as Dorian passed. 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.

At the end of the room, a small staircase led to a darkened chamber. As Dorian hurried up its three rickety steps, the heavy smell of opium reached him. He took a deep breath, and his nostrils quivered with pleasure. When he entered, a young man looked up and nodded hesitantly. The man had smooth yellow hair and was bending over a lamp, lighting a long, thin pipe.

“You here, Adrian?” muttered Dorian.

“You’re here, Adrian?” muttered Dorian.

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

“Where else would I be?” he replied without energy. “None of the guys will talk 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.”

“Darlington isn’t going to do anything. My brother finally paid the bill. George doesn’t speak to me either.... I don’t care,” he added with a sigh. “As long as you have this stuff, you don’t need friends. I think I’ve 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.

Dorian winced and looked around at the grotesque figures sprawled in strange poses on the ragged mattresses. Their twisted limbs, open mouths, and dull, staring eyes fascinated him. He knew what strange heavens they were suffering in. He knew, too, what dreary hells were teaching them the secret of some new joy. They were better off than he was. He was trapped in his thoughts. Memory, like a terrible disease, was eating away at his soul. From time to time, he seemed to see Basil Hallward’s eyes looking at him. Yet he felt he could not stay. Adrian Singleton’s presence troubled him. He wanted to be somewhere 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.

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

“On the wharf?”

“On the dock?”

“Yes.”

“That mad-cat is sure to be there. They won’t have her in this place now.”

“That crazy woman is sure to be there. They won’t let her into this place anymore.”

Dorian shrugged his shoulders. “I am sick of women who love one. Women who hate one are much more interesting. Besides, the stuff is better.”

Dorian shrugged. “I’m sick of women who love me. Women who hate me are much more interesting. Besides, the stuff is better.”

“Much the same.”

“I like it better. Come and have something to drink. I must have something.”

“I like it better. Come have a drink. I need one.”

“I don’t want anything,” murmured the young man.

“I don’t want anything,” the young man murmured.

“Never mind.”

Adrian Singleton rose up wearily and followed Dorian to the bar. A half-caste, in a ragged turban and a shabby ulster, grinned a hideous greeting as he thrust a bottle of brandy and two tumblers in front of them. The women sidled up and began to chatter. Dorian turned his back on them and said something in a low voice to Adrian Singleton.

Adrian Singleton got up wearily and followed Dorian to the bar. A mixed-race man in a ragged turban and a worn overcoat gave them a hideous grin of greeting. He thrust a bottle of brandy and two glasses in front of them. The women edged closer and began to chatter. Dorian turned his back on them and said something quietly to Adrian Singleton.

A crooked smile, like a Malay crease, writhed across the face of one of the women. “We are very proud to-night,” she sneered.

A crooked smile, like a Malay crease, twisted across one woman’s face. “We’re very proud tonight,” she sneered.

“For God’s sake don’t talk to me,” cried Dorian, stamping his foot on the ground. “What do you want? Money? Here it is. Don’t ever talk to me again.”

“For God’s sake, don’t talk to me,” Dorian cried, stamping his foot on the ground. “What do you want? Money? Here’s the money. Don’t ever talk to me again.”

Two red sparks flashed for a moment in the woman’s sodden eyes, then flickered out and left them dull and glazed. She tossed her head and raked the coins off the counter with greedy fingers. Her companion watched her enviously.

Two red sparks flashed briefly in the woman’s bleary eyes. Then they flickered out, leaving her eyes dull and glazed. She tossed her head and greedily swept the coins off the counter with her fingers. Her companion watched her with envy.

“It’s no use,” sighed Adrian Singleton. “I don’t care to go back. What does it matter? I am quite happy here.”

“It’s no use,” Adrian Singleton sighed. “I don’t want to go back. What does it matter? I’m quite happy here.”

“You will write to me if you want anything, won’t you?” said Dorian, after a pause.

“You’ll write to me if you need anything, won’t you?” Dorian said after a pause.

“Perhaps.”

“Good night, then.”

“Good night,” answered the young man, passing up the steps and wiping his parched mouth with a handkerchief.

“Good night,” the young man replied, walking up the steps and wiping his dry mouth with a handkerchief.

Dorian walked to the door with a look of pain in his face. As he drew the curtain aside, a hideous laugh broke from the painted lips of the woman who had taken his money. “There goes the devil’s bargain!” she hiccoughed, in a hoarse voice.

Dorian walked to the door, his face showing pain. As he pulled the curtain aside, the woman who had taken his money let out an ugly laugh. Her lips were painted. “There goes the devil’s bargain!” she said in a hoarse voice, hiccuping.

“Curse you!” he answered, “don’t call me that.”

“Damn you!” he replied, “don’t call me that.”

She snapped her fingers. “Prince Charming is what you like to be called, ain’t it?” she yelled after him.

She snapped her fingers. “You like to be called Prince Charming, don’t you?” she yelled after him.

The drowsy sailor leaped to his feet as she spoke, and looked wildly round. The sound of the shutting of the hall door fell on his ear. He rushed out as if in pursuit.

The sleepy sailor jumped to his feet as she spoke and looked wildly around. He heard the hall door close. He rushed out as if chasing someone.

Dorian Gray hurried along the quay through the drizzling rain. His meeting with Adrian Singleton had strangely moved him, and he wondered if the ruin of that young life was really to be laid at his door, as Basil Hallward had said to him with such infamy of insult. He bit his lip, and for a few seconds his eyes grew sad. Yet, after all, what did it matter to him? One’s days were too brief to take the burden of another’s errors on one’s shoulders. Each man lived his own life and paid his own price for living it. The only pity was one had to pay so often for a single fault. One had to pay over and over again, indeed. In her dealings with man, destiny never closed her accounts.

Dorian Gray hurried along the quay through the drizzle. His meeting with Adrian Singleton had strangely moved him. He wondered if he was really to blame for the ruin of that young life. Basil Hallward had said so, in words that were a disgraceful insult. Dorian bit his lip, and for a few seconds his eyes grew sad. Yet, after all, what did it matter to him? Life was too short to take responsibility for another person's mistakes. Each man lived his own life and paid his own price for living it. The only pity was that one had to pay so often for a single fault. One had to pay over and over again, in fact. In her dealings with man, destiny never closed her accounts.

There are moments, psychologists tell us, when the passion for sin, or for what the world calls sin, so dominates a nature that every fibre of the body, as every cell of the brain, seems to be instinct with fearful impulses. Men and women at such moments lose the freedom of their will. They move to their terrible end as automatons move. Choice is taken from them, and conscience is either killed, or, if it lives at all, lives but to give rebellion its fascination and disobedience its charm. For all sins, as theologians weary not of reminding us, are sins of disobedience. When that high spirit, that morning star of evil, fell from heaven, it was as a rebel that he fell.

Psychologists tell us that there are moments when the passion for sin, or what the world calls sin, overwhelms a person. Every fiber of the body and every cell of the brain seems filled with terrifying impulses. At such moments, men and women lose their freedom of will. They move toward their terrible end like machines. They can no longer choose, and their conscience is either dead or survives only to make rebellion fascinating and disobedience appealing. For all sins are sins of disobedience, as theologians never tire of reminding us. When that lofty spirit, that morning star of evil, fell from heaven, he fell as a rebel.

Callous, concentrated on evil, with stained mind, and soul hungry for rebellion, Dorian Gray hastened on, quickening his step as he went, but as he darted aside into a dim archway, that had served him often as a short cut to the ill-famed place where he was going, he felt himself suddenly seized from behind, and before he had time to defend himself, he was thrust back against the wall, with a brutal hand round his throat.

Callous and focused on evil, with a corrupted mind and a soul hungry for rebellion, Dorian Gray hurried on. He walked faster as he went. But then he darted into a dim archway. He had often used it as a shortcut to the disreputable place he was headed for. As he entered, someone suddenly grabbed him from behind. Before Dorian could defend himself, he was shoved against the wall, with a brutal hand around his throat.

He struggled madly for life, and by a terrible effort wrenched the tightening fingers away. In a second he heard the click of a revolver, and saw the gleam of a polished barrel, pointing straight at his head, and the dusky form of a short, thick-set man facing him.

He fought desperately for his life and, with a terrible effort, tore the tightening fingers away. A second later, he heard a revolver click. He saw its polished barrel gleaming, pointed straight at his head. A short, stocky man stood facing him, his figure shadowy.

“What do you want?” he gasped.

“Keep quiet,” said the man. “If you stir, I shoot you.”

“Keep quiet,” said the man. “If you move, I’ll shoot you.”

“You are mad. What have I done to you?”

“You’re crazy. What have I done to you?”

“You wrecked the life of Sibyl Vane,” was the answer, “and Sibyl Vane was my sister. She killed herself. I know it. Her death is at your door. I swore I would kill you in return. For years I have sought you. I had no clue, no trace. The two people who could have described you were dead. I knew nothing of you but the pet name she used to call you. I heard it to-night by chance. Make your peace with God, for to-night you are going to die.”

“You ruined Sibyl Vane’s life,” came the answer, “and Sibyl Vane was my sister. She killed herself. I know it. Her death is your fault. I swore I would kill you in return. I’ve been looking for you for years. I had no clue, no trace of you. The two people who could have described you were dead. All I knew about you was the pet name she called you. I heard that name by chance tonight. Make your peace with God, because tonight you are going to die.”

Dorian Gray grew sick with fear. “I never knew her,” he stammered. “I never heard of her. You are mad.”

Dorian Gray felt sick with fear. “I never knew her,” he stammered. “I never heard of her. You’re crazy.”

“You had better confess your sin, for as sure as I am James Vane, you are going to die.” There was a horrible moment. Dorian did not know what to say or do. “Down on your knees!” growled the man. “I give you one minute to make your peace—no more. I go on board to-night for India, and I must do my job first. One minute. That’s all.”

“You'd better confess your sin, because as surely as my name is James Vane, you're going to die.” For a moment, everything was horrible. Dorian didn't know what to say or do. “Get on your knees!” the man growled. “I'll give you one minute to make your peace. No more. I'm boarding a ship for India tonight, and I have to do my job first. One minute. That's all.”

Dorian’s arms fell to his side. Paralysed with terror, he did not know what to do. Suddenly a wild hope flashed across his brain. “Stop,” he cried. “How long ago is it since your sister died? Quick, tell me!”

Dorian’s arms fell to his sides. Frozen with terror, he did not know what to do. Suddenly, a wild hope flashed through his mind. “Stop,” he cried. “How long ago did your sister die? Quick, tell me!”

“Eighteen years,” said the man. “Why do you ask me? What do years matter?”

“Eighteen years,” said the man. “Why are you asking me? What do years matter?”

“Eighteen years,” laughed Dorian Gray, with a touch of triumph in his voice. “Eighteen years! Set me under the lamp and look at my face!”

“Eighteen years,” Dorian Gray laughed, with a hint of triumph in his voice. “Eighteen years! Put me under the lamp and look at my face!”

James Vane hesitated for a moment, not understanding what was meant. Then he seized Dorian Gray and dragged him from the archway.

James Vane hesitated for a moment, not understanding what was meant. Then he grabbed Dorian Gray and dragged him out of the archway.

Dim and wavering as was the wind-blown light, yet it served to show him the hideous error, as it seemed, into which he had fallen, for the face of the man he had sought to kill had all the bloom of boyhood, all the unstained purity of youth. He seemed little more than a lad of twenty summers, hardly older, if older indeed at all, than his sister had been when they had parted so many years ago. It was obvious that this was not the man who had destroyed her life.

Though the wind-blown light was dim and flickering, it showed him what seemed to be his terrible mistake. The face of the man he had tried to kill had all the freshness of boyhood, all the unspoiled purity of youth. He seemed little more than a boy of twenty. He was hardly older, if he was older at all, than his sister had been when they parted so many years ago. Clearly, this was not the man who had destroyed her life.

He loosened his hold and reeled back. “My God! my God!” he cried, “and I would have murdered you!”

He let go and staggered back. “My God! My God!” he cried. “And I would have murdered you!”

Dorian Gray drew a long breath. “You have been on the brink of committing a terrible crime, my man,” he said, looking at him sternly. “Let this be a warning to you not to take vengeance into your own hands.”

Dorian Gray took a deep breath. “You were close to committing a terrible crime, my man,” he said, looking at him sternly. “Let this be a warning not to take revenge into your own hands.”

“Forgive me, sir,” muttered James Vane. “I was deceived. A chance word I heard in that damned den set me on the wrong track.”

“Forgive me, sir,” muttered James Vane. “I was misled. Something I happened to hear in that damned den led me in the wrong direction.”

“You had better go home and put that pistol away, or you may get into trouble,” said Dorian, turning on his heel and going slowly down the street.

“You should go home and put that pistol away, or you may get into trouble,” said Dorian. He turned around and walked slowly down the street.

James Vane stood on the pavement in horror. He was trembling from head to foot. After a little while, a black shadow that had been creeping along the dripping wall moved out into the light and came close to him with stealthy footsteps. He felt a hand laid on his arm and looked round with a start. It was one of the women who had been drinking at the bar.

James Vane stood on the sidewalk, horrified. He was trembling from head to toe. After a while, a dark shadow crept along the wet wall and moved into the light. It came close to him with quiet, stealthy footsteps. He felt a hand on his arm and turned around with a start. It was one of the women who had been drinking at the bar.

“Why didn’t you kill him?” she hissed out, putting haggard face quite close to his. “I knew you were following him when you rushed out from Daly’s. You fool! You should have killed him. He has lots of money, and he’s as bad as bad.”

“Why didn’t you kill him?” she hissed, bringing her haggard face close to his. “I knew you were following him when you rushed out of Daly’s. You fool! You should have killed him. He has lots of money, and he’s as bad as anyone can be.”

“He is not the man I am looking for,” he answered, “and I want no man’s money. I want a man’s life. The man whose life I want must be nearly forty now. This one is little more than a boy. Thank God, I have not got his blood upon my hands.”

“He’s not the man I’m looking for,” he replied, “and I don’t want anyone’s money. I want a man’s life. The man I want to kill must be nearly forty now. This one is barely more than a boy. Thank God I don’t have his blood on my hands.”

The woman gave a bitter laugh. “Little more than a boy!” she sneered. “Why, man, it’s nigh on eighteen years since Prince Charming made me what I am.”

The woman laughed bitterly. “Little more than a boy!” she sneered. “Why, man, it’s been almost eighteen years since Prince Charming made me what I am.”

“You lie!” cried James Vane.

“You’re lying!” shouted James Vane.

She raised her hand up to heaven. “Before God I am telling the truth,” she cried.

She raised her hand toward heaven. “Before God, I am telling the truth,” she cried.

“Before God?”

“Strike me dumb if it ain’t so. He is the worst one that comes here. They say he has sold himself to the devil for a pretty face. It’s nigh on eighteen years since I met him. He hasn’t changed much since then. I have, though,” she added, with a sickly leer.

“May I be struck dumb if it isn’t true. He’s the worst person who comes here. They say he sold himself to the devil for a handsome face. It’s been nearly eighteen years since I met him. He hasn’t changed much since then. I have, though,” she added, with a sickly leer.

“You swear this?”

“Do you swear this?”

“I swear it,” came in hoarse echo from her flat mouth. “But don’t give me away to him,” she whined; “I am afraid of him. Let me have some money for my night’s lodging.”

“I swear it,” she echoed in a hoarse voice, her mouth flat. “But don’t give me away to him,” she whined. “I’m afraid of him. Give me some money for a place to stay tonight.”

He broke from her with an oath and rushed to the corner of the street, but Dorian Gray had disappeared. When he looked back, the woman had vanished also.

He pulled away from her with a curse and rushed to the street corner, but Dorian Gray had disappeared. When he looked back, the woman had vanished too.