“I am sorry to have had to wake you up, Francis,” he said, stepping in; “but I had forgotten my latchkey. What time is it?”
“Ten minutes past two, sir,” answered the man, looking at the clock and blinking.
“Ten minutes past two? How horribly late! You must wake me at nine tomorrow. I have some work to do.”
“All right, sir.”
“Did anyone call this evening?”
“ Mr. Hallward, sir. He stayed here till eleven, and then he went away to catch his train.”
“Oh! I am sorry I didn’t see him. Did he leave any message?”
“No, sir, except that he would write to you from Paris, if he did not find you at the club.”
“That will do, Francis. Don’t forget to call me at nine tomorrow.”
“No, sir.”
The man shambled down the passage in his slippers.
Dorian Gray threw his hat and coat upon the table and passed into the library. For a quarter of an hour he walked up and down the room, biting his lip and thinking. Then he took down the Blue Book from one of the shelves and began to turn over the leaves. “Alan Campbell, 152, Hertford Street, Mayfair.” Yes; that was the man he wanted.