‘What do you think has happened to Basil?’ asked Dorian slowly. ‘I’ve no idea,’ answered Lord Henry. ‘The English police report that Basil went to Paris on the midnight train on the ninth of November, but the French police say that he never arrived in Paris at all. If Basil wants to hide himself, I really don’t care. And if he’s dead, I don’t want to think about him. Death is the only thing that really frightens me – I hate it.’ ‘Harry, don’t people say that… that Basil was murdered? Said Dorian. ‘Some of the newspapers say so,’ replied Lord Henry, ‘but who would want to murder poor Basil? He wasn’t clever enough to have enemies.’ ‘What will you say, Harry, if I tell you that I murdered Basil?’ asked Dorian. He watched his friend carefully. Lord Henry smiled. ‘No, my dear Dorian, murder wouldn’t please you. You like a different kind of pleasure. And you should never do anything that you cannot talk about after dinner.’ He lifted his coffee cup. ‘What happened to the fine portrait that Basil painted of you? I haven’t seen it for years. Didn’t you tell me that it was stolen? What a pity!’ ‘Oh, I never really liked it,’ said Dorian. ‘I prefer not to think about it.’
