“Yes,” he answered. Then he bit his lip.
“No, I don’t mean that. I didn’t go to the club. I walked about. I forget what I did. … How inquisitive you are, Harry! You always want to know what one has been doing. I always want to forget what I have been doing. I came in at half-past two, if you wish to know the exact time. I had left my latchkey at home, and my servant had to let me in. If you want any corroborative evidence on the subject, you can ask him.”
Lord Henry shrugged his shoulders.
“My dear fellow, as if I cared! Let us go up to the drawing-room. No sherry, thank you, Mr. Chapman. Something has happened to you, Dorian. Tell me what it is. You are not yourself tonight.”
“Don’t mind me, Harry. I am irritable, and out of temper. I shall come round and see you tomorrow, or next day. Make my excuses to Lady Narborough. I shan’t go upstairs. I shall go home. I must go home.”
“All right, Dorian. I dare say I shall see you tomorrow at teatime. The duchess is coming.”
“I will try to be there, Harry,” he said, leaving the room.
As he drove back to his own house, he was conscious that the sense of terror he thought he had strangled had come back to him. Lord Henry’s casual questioning had made him lose his nerve for the moment, and he wanted his nerve still.
Things that were dangerous had to be destroyed. He winced. He hated the idea of even touching them.
Yet it had to be done. He realized that, and when he had locked the door of his library, he opened the secret press into which he had thrust Basil Hallward’s coat and bag.