"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.
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.
"Why didn't you kill him?" she hissed out, putting her 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."
"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."
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."
"You lie!" cried James Vane.
She raised her hand up to 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.
"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."
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.
CHAPTER XVII
A week later Dorian Gray was sitting in the conservatory at Selby Royal talking to the pretty Duchess of Monmouth, who with her husband, a jaded-looking man of sixty, was amongst his guests.
It was tea-time, and the mellow light of the huge lace-covered lamp that stood on the table lit up the delicate china and hammered silver of the service at which the Duchess was presiding.
Her white hands were moving daintily among the cups, and her full red lips were smiling at something that Dorian had whispered to her.
Lord Henry was lying back in a silk-draped wicker chair looking at them. On a peach-coloured divan sat Lady Narborough pretending to listen to the Duke's description of the last Brazilian beetle that he had added to his collection.
Three young men in elaborate smoking-suits were handing tea-cakes to some of the women.
The house-party consisted of twelve people, and there were more expected to arrive on the next day.
"What are you two talking about?" said Lord Henry, strolling over to the table, and putting his cup down. "I hope Dorian has told you about my plan for rechristening everything, Gladys.
It is a delightful idea."
"But I don't want to be rechristened, Harry," rejoined the Duchess, looking up at him with her wonderful eyes. "I am quite satisfied with my own name, and I am sure Mr. Gray should be satisfied with his."
"My dear Gladys, I would not alter either name for the world.
They are both perfect.
I was thinking chiefly of flowers.
Yesterday I cut an orchid, for my buttonhole. It was a marvellous spotted thing, as effective as the seven deadly sins. In a thoughtless moment I asked one of the gardeners what it was called.
He told me it was a fine specimen of Robinsoniana, or something dreadful of that kind.
It is a sad truth, but we have lost the faculty of giving lovely names to things.
Names are everything.
I never quarrel with actions. My one quarrel is with words.
That is the reason I hate vulgar realism in literature.