Pagina 489 di 490

"Whose house is that, Constable?" asked the elder of the two

gentlemen.

"Mr. Dorian Gray's, sir," answered the policeman.

They looked at each other, as they walked away, and sneered. One

of them was Sir Henry Ashton's uncle.

Inside, in the servants' part of the house, the half-clad

domestics were talking in low whispers to each other. Old Mrs.

Leaf was crying and wringing her hands. Francis was as pale as

death.

After about a quarter of an hour, he got the coachman and one of

the footmen and crept upstairs. They knocked, but there was no

reply. They called out. Everything was still. Finally, after

vainly trying to force the door, they got on the roof and dropped

down on to the balcony. The windows yielded easily-their bolts

were old.