Lord Henry walked across the room, and sitting down by Dorian Gray, took both his hands in his own and held them tightly.
“Dorian,” he said, “my letter—don’t be frightened—was to tell you that Sibyl Vane is dead.”
A cry of pain broke from the lad’s lips, and he leaped to his feet, tearing his hands away from Lord Henry’s grasp.
“Dead! Sibyl dead! It is not true! It is a horrible lie! How dare you say it?”
“It is quite true, Dorian,” said Lord Henry, gravely.
“It is in all the morning papers. I wrote down to you to ask you not to see anyone till I came. There will have to be an inquest, of course, and you must not be mixed up in it.
Things like that make a man fashionable in Paris. But in London people are so prejudiced. Here, one should never make one’s debut with a scandal. One should reserve that to give an interest to one’s old age.
I suppose they don’t know your name at the theatre? If they don’t, it is all right. Did anyone see you going round to her room? That is an important point.”
Dorian did not answer for a few moments. He was dazed with horror. Finally he stammered, in a stifled voice, “Harry, did you say an inquest? What did you mean by that? Did Sibyl—? Oh, Harry, I can’t bear it! But be quick. Tell me everything at once.”
“I have no doubt it was not an accident, Dorian, though it must be put in that way to the public. It seems that as she was leaving the theatre with her mother, about half-past twelve or so, she said she had forgotten something upstairs. They waited some time for her, but she did not come down again.