He hurried on towards the left, glancing back now and then to see if he
was being followed. In about seven or eight minutes he reached a small
shabby house that was wedged in between two gaunt factories. In one of
the top-windows stood a lamp. He stopped and gave a peculiar knock.

After a little time he heard steps in the passage and the chain being
unhooked. The door opened quietly, and he went in without saying a word
to the squat misshapen figure that flattened itself into the shadow as
he passed. At the end of the hall hung a tattered green curtain that
swayed and shook in the gusty wind which had followed him in from the
street. He dragged it aside and entered a long low room which looked as
if it had once been a third-rate dancing-saloon. Shrill flaring
gas-jets, dulled and distorted in the fly-blown mirrors that faced them,
were ranged round the walls. Greasy reflectors of ribbed tin backed
them, making quivering disks of light. The floor was covered with
ochre-coloured sawdust, trampled here and there into mud, and stained
with dark rings of spilled liquor. Some Malays were crouching by a
little charcoal stove, playing with bone counters and showing their
white teeth as they chattered. In one corner, with his head buried in
his arms, a sailor sprawled over a table, and by the tawdrily painted
bar that ran across one complete side stood two haggard women, mocking
an old man who was brushing the sleeves of his coat with an expression
of disgust. "He thinks he's got red ants on him," laughed one of them,
as Dorian passed by. The man looked at her in terror and began to whimper.

At the end of the room there was a little staircase, leading to a
darkened chamber. As Dorian hurried up its three rickety steps, the
heavy odour of opium met him. He heaved a deep breath, and his nostrils
quivered with pleasure. When he entered, a young man with smooth yellow
hair, who was bending over a lamp lighting a long thin pipe, looked up
at him and nodded in a hesitating manner.

"You here, Adrian?" muttered Dorian.

"Where else should I be?" he answered, listlessly. "None of the chaps
will speak to me now."

"I thought you had left England."

"Darlington is not going to do anything. My brother paid the bill at
last. George doesn't speak to me either. . . . I don't care," he added
with a sigh. "As long as one has this stuff, one doesn't want friends. I
think I have had too many friends."

Dorian winced and looked round at the grotesque things that lay in such
fantastic postures on the ragged mattresses. The twisted limbs, the
gaping mouths, the staring lustreless eyes, fascinated him. He knew in
what strange heavens they were suffering, and what dull hells were
teaching them the secret of some new joy. They were better off than he
was. He was prisoned in thought. Memory, like a horrible malady, was
eating his soul away. From time to time he seemed to see the eyes of
Basil Hallward looking at him. Yet he felt he could not stay. The
presence of Adrian Singleton troubled him. He wanted to be where no one
would know who he was. He wanted to escape from himself.

"I am going on to the other place," he said after a pause.

"On the wharf?"

"Yes."

"That mad-cat is sure to be there. They won't have her in this place now."

Dorian shrugged his shoulders. "I am sick of women who love one. Women
who hate one are much more interesting. Besides, the stuff is better."

"Much the same."

"I like it better. Come and have something to drink. I must have something."

"I don't want anything," murmured the young man.

"Never mind."

Adrian Singleton rose up wearily and followed Dorian to the bar. A
half-caste, in a ragged turban and a shabby ulster, grinned a hideous
greeting as he thrust a bottle of brandy and two tumblers in front of
them. The women sidled up and began to chatter. Dorian turned his back
on them and said something in a low voice to Adrian Singleton.

A crooked smile, like a Malay crease, writhed across the face of one of
the women. "We are very proud to-night," she sneered.

"For God's sake don't talk to me," cried Dorian, stamping his foot on
the ground. "What do you want? Money? Here it is. Don't ever talk to me
again."

Two red sparks flashed for a moment in the woman's sodden eyes, then
flickered out and left them dull and glazed. She tossed her head and
raked the coins off the counter with greedy fingers. Her companion
watched her enviously.

"It's no use," sighed Adrian Singleton. "I don't care to go back. What
does it matter? I am quite happy here."

"You will write to me if you want anything, won't you?" said Dorian,
after a pause.

"Perhaps."



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