Except for a light in one of the top windows, the house was all dark.

After a time, he went away and stood in an adjoining portico and watched.
"Whose house is that, Constable ?" asked the elder of the two gentlemen.
"Mr.Dorian Gray's, sir," answered the policeman.
They looked at each other, as they walked away, and sneered.

One of them was Sir Henry Ashton's uncle.
Inside, in the servants' part of the house, the half-clad domestics were talking in low whispers to each other.

Old Mrs.Leaf was crying and wringing her hands.

Francis was as pale as death.
After about a quarter of an hour, he got the coachman and one of the footmen and crept upstairs.