r 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."

He frowned, and, tearing the paper in two, went across the room and
flung the pieces away. How ugly it all was! And how horribly real
ugliness made things! He felt a little annoyed with Lord Henry for
having sent him the report. And it was certainly stupid of him to have
marked it with red pencil. Victor might have read it. The man knew more
than enough English for that.

Perhaps he had read it, and had begun to suspect something. And, yet,
what did it matter? What had Dorian Gray to do with Sibyl Vane's death?
There was nothing to fear. Dorian Gray had not killed her.

His eye fell on the yellow book that Lord Henry had sent him. What was
it, he wondered. He went towards the little pearl-coloured octagonal
stand, that had always looked to him like the work of some strange
Egyptian bees that wrought in silver, and taking up the volume, flung
himself into an arm-chair, and began to turn over the leaves. After a
few minutes he became absorbed. It was the strangest book that he had
ever read. It seemed to him that in exquisite raiment, and to the
delicate sound of flutes, the sins of the world were passing in dumb
show before him. Things that he had dimly dreamed of were suddenly made
real to him. Things of which he had never dreamed were gradually
revealed.

It was a novel without a plot, and with only one character, being,
indeed, s