“The persons are here, monsieur.”

He felt that the man must be got rid of at once.  He must not be allowed to know where the picture was being taken to.  There was something sly about him, and he had thoughtful, treacherous eyes.  Sitting down at the writing-table, he scribbled a note to Lord Henry, asking him to send him round something to read, and reminding him that they were to meet at eight-fifteen that evening.

“Wait for an answer,” he said, handing it to him, “and show the men in here.”

In two or three minutes there was another knock, and Mr. Ashton himself, the celebrated frame-maker of South Audley Street, came in with a somewhat rough-looking young assistant.  Mr. Ashton was a florid, red-whiskered little man, whose admiration for art was considerably [61] tempered by the inveterate impecuniosity of most of the artists who dealt with him.  As a rule, he never left his shop.  He waited for people to come to him.  But he always made an exception in favor of Dorian Gray.  There was something about Dorian that charmed everybody.  It was a pleasure even to see him.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Gray?” he said, rubbing his fat freckled hands.  “I thought I would do myself the honor of coming round in person.  I have just got a beauty of a frame, sir.  Picked it up at a sale.  Old Florentine.  Came from Fonthill, I believe.  Admirably suited for a religious picture, Mr. Gray.”

“I am so sorry you have given yourself the trouble of coming round, Mr. Ashton.  I will certainly drop in and look at the frame,—­though I don’t go in much for religious art,—­but to-day I only want a picture carried to the top of the house for me.  It is rather heavy, so I thought I would ask you to lend me a couple of your men.”

“No trouble at all, Mr. Gray.  I am delighted to be of any service to you.  Which is the work of art, sir?”

“This,” replied Dorian, moving the screen back.  “Can you move it, covering and all, just as it is?  I don’t want it to get scratched going up-stairs.”

“There will be no difficulty, sir,” said the genial frame-maker, beginning, with the aid of his assistant, to unhook the picture from the long brass chains by which it was suspended.  “And, now, where shall we carry it to, Mr. Gray?”

“I will show you the way, Mr. Ashton, if you will kindly follow me.  Or perhaps you had better go in front.  I am afraid it is right at the top of the house.  We will go up by the front staircase, as it is wider.”

He held the door open for them, and they passed out into the hall and began the ascent.  The elaborate character of the frame had made the picture extremely bulky, and now and then, in spite of the obsequious protests of Mr. Ashton, who had a true tradesman’s dislike of seeing a gentleman doing anything useful, Dorian put his hand to it so as to help them.

“Something of a load to carry, sir,” gasped the little man, when they reached the top landing.  And he wiped his shiny forehead.