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It was a small Chinese box of black and gold-dust lacquer,

elaborately wrought, the sides patterned with curved waves, and

the silken cords hung with round crystals and tasselled in

plaited metal threads. He opened it. Inside was a green paste,

waxy in lustre, the odour curiously heavy and persistent.

He hesitated for some moments, with a strangely immobile smile

upon his face. Then shivering, though the atmosphere of the room

was terribly hot, he drew himself up and glanced at the clock. It

was twenty minutes to twelve. He put the box back, shutting the

cabinet doors as he did so, and went into his bedroom.

As midnight was striking bronze blows upon the dusky air, Dorian

Gray, dressed commonly, and with a muffler wrapped round his

throat, crept quietly out of his house. In Bond Street he found a

hansom with a good horse. He hailed it and in a low voice gave

the driver an address.

The man shook his head. "It is too far for me," he muttered.