he remembered in the grandfather who had been so
stern to him in his boyhood. The picture had to be concealed. There was
no help for it.

"Bring it in, Mr. Hubbard, please," he said, wearily, turning round. "I
am sorry I kept you so long. I was thinking of something else."

"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 anyone 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 encrusted 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 thei