The Letter Incident

It was late in the afternoon, when Mr. Utterson found his way to Dr. Jekyll’s door, where he was at once admitted by Poole, and carried down by the kitchen offices and across a yard which had once been a garden, to the building which was indifferently known as the laboratory or dissecting rooms. The doctor had bought the house from the heirs of a celebrated surgeon; and his own tastes being rather chemical than anatomical, had changed the destination of the block at the bottom of the garden. It was the first time that the lawyer had been received in that part of his friend’s quarters; and he eyed the dingy, windowless structure with curiosity, and gazed round with a distasteful sense of strangeness as he crossed the theatre, once crowded with eager students and now lying gaunt and silent, the tables laden with chemical apparatus, the floor strewn with crates and littered with packing straw, and the light falling dimly through the foggy cupola. At the further end, a flight of stairs mounted to a door covered with red baize; and through this, Mr. Utterson was at last received into the doctor’s cabinet. It was a large room fitted round with glass presses, furnished, among other things, with a cheval-glass and a business table, and looking out upon the court by three dusty windows barred with iron. The fire burned in the grate; a lamp was set lighted on the chimney shelf, for even in the houses the fog began to lie thickly; and there, close up to the warmth, sat Dr. Jekyll, looking deathly sick. He did not rise to meet his visitor, but held out a cold hand and bade him welcome in a changed voice.

It was late in the afternoon when Mr. Utterson arrived at Dr. Jekyll’s door. Poole let him in at once and led him past the kitchen rooms and across a yard. The yard had once been a garden. They reached a building known as either the laboratory or the dissecting rooms. The doctor had bought the house from the heirs of a celebrated surgeon. His own interests lay more in chemistry than anatomy, so he had changed the use of this building. The lawyer had never before been invited into this part of his friend’s home. He studied the dingy, windowless building with curiosity. As he crossed the old lecture theatre, he looked around with an uneasy sense of unfamiliarity. Once crowded with eager students, the room now stood bare and silent. Chemical equipment covered the tables. Crates and packing straw littered the floor, and dim light filtered through the fog-covered dome overhead. At the far end, stairs led up to a door covered with red woollen cloth. Through this door, Mr. Utterson was finally shown into the doctor’s private study. The study was a large room lined with glass-fronted cabinets. Among its furnishings were a full-length standing mirror and a desk. Three dusty windows with iron bars looked out onto the courtyard. A fire burned in the grate, and a lamp stood lit on the mantelpiece. Even indoors, the fog was beginning to gather thickly. Dr. Jekyll sat close to the fire’s warmth, looking deathly ill. He did not get up to greet his visitor, but held out a cold hand and welcomed him. His voice had changed.

“And now,” said Mr. Utterson, as soon as Poole had left them, “you have heard the news?”

“Now,” said Mr. Utterson as soon as Poole had left them, “have you heard the news?”

The doctor shuddered. “They were crying it in the square,” he said. “I heard them in my dining-room.”

The doctor shuddered. “They were shouting it in the square,” he said. “I heard them from my dining room.”

“One word,” said the lawyer. “Carew was my client, but so are you, and I want to know what I am doing. You have not been mad enough to hide this fellow?”

“Just one thing,” said the lawyer. “Carew was my client, but you’re my client too. And I want to know what I’m doing. You haven’t been crazy enough to hide this man, have you?”

“Utterson, I swear to God,” cried the doctor, “I swear to God I will never set eyes on him again. I bind my honour to you that I am done with him in this world. It is all at an end. And indeed he does not want my help; you do not know him as I do; he is safe, he is quite safe; mark my words, he will never more be heard of.”

“Utterson, I swear to God,” cried the doctor, “I swear to God I will never see him again. I give you my word of honor that I am done with him forever. It is all over. And he really does not want my help. You do not know him as I do. He is safe, he is completely safe. Mark my words, he will never be heard of again.”

The lawyer listened gloomily; he did not like his friend’s feverish manner. “You seem pretty sure of him,” said he; “and for your sake, I hope you may be right. If it came to a trial, your name might appear.”

The lawyer listened gloomily. He did not like his friend’s frantic manner. “You seem pretty sure of him,” he said. “And for your sake, I hope you’re right. If the matter went to trial, your name might come up.”

“I am quite sure of him,” replied Jekyll; “I have grounds for certainty that I cannot share with any one. But there is one thing on which you may advise me. I have—I have received a letter; and I am at a loss whether I should show it to the police. I should like to leave it in your hands, Utterson; you would judge wisely, I am sure; I have so great a trust in you.”

“I am quite sure of him,” Jekyll replied. “I have reasons for being certain that I cannot share with anyone. But there is one thing you can advise me on. I have, I have received a letter. And I don’t know whether I should show the letter to the police. I’d like to leave it in your hands, Utterson. I’m sure you would judge wisely. I trust you so much.”

“You fear, I suppose, that it might lead to his detection?” asked the lawyer.

“I suppose you're afraid it might lead to him being found out?” asked the lawyer.

“No,” said the other. “I cannot say that I care what becomes of Hyde; I am quite done with him. I was thinking of my own character, which this hateful business has rather exposed.”

“No,” said the other. “I can’t say I care what happens to Hyde. I’m completely done with him. I was thinking of my own reputation, which this hateful business has put at some risk.”

Utterson ruminated awhile; he was surprised at his friend’s selfishness, and yet relieved by it. “Well,” said he, at last, “let me see the letter.”

Utterson thought for a while. He was surprised by his friend’s selfishness, yet also relieved by it. “Well,” he said at last, “let me see the letter.”

The letter was written in an odd, upright hand and signed “Edward Hyde”: and it signified, briefly enough, that the writer’s benefactor, Dr. Jekyll, whom he had long so unworthily repaid for a thousand generosities, need labour under no alarm for his safety, as he had means of escape on which he placed a sure dependence. The lawyer liked this letter well enough; it put a better colour on the intimacy than he had looked for; and he blamed himself for some of his past suspicions.

The letter was written in strange, upright handwriting and signed “Edward Hyde”. It said briefly that his benefactor, Dr. Jekyll, had no reason to worry about Hyde’s safety. Hyde had long repaid Dr. Jekyll’s thousand acts of generosity in a shameful way. But Hyde had a means of escape he was sure he could rely on. The lawyer was fairly pleased with the letter. It made the close relationship seem better than he had expected, and he blamed himself for some earlier suspicions.

“Have you the envelope?” he asked.

“Do you have the envelope?” he asked.

“I burned it,” replied Jekyll, “before I thought what I was about. But it bore no postmark. The note was handed in.”

“I burned it,” Jekyll replied, “before I realized what I was doing. But the note had no postmark. It was delivered by hand.”

“Shall I keep this and sleep upon it?” asked Utterson.

“Should I keep this and sleep on it?” asked Utterson.

“I wish you to judge for me entirely,” was the reply. “I have lost confidence in myself.”

“I want you to make all the decisions for me,” came the reply. “I’ve lost confidence in myself.”

“Well, I shall consider,” returned the lawyer. “And now one word more: it was Hyde who dictated the terms in your will about that disappearance?”

“Well, I’ll think about it,” replied the lawyer. “And now one more question: did Hyde dictate the terms in your will about that disappearance?”

The doctor seemed seized with a qualm of faintness; he shut his mouth tight and nodded.

The doctor seemed suddenly faint. He pressed his lips tightly together and nodded.

“I knew it,” said Utterson. “He meant to murder you. You had a fine escape.”

“I knew it,” said Utterson. “He intended to murder you. You were lucky to escape.”

“I have had what is far more to the purpose,” returned the doctor solemnly: “I have had a lesson—O God, Utterson, what a lesson I have had!” And he covered his face for a moment with his hands.

“I have had something far more relevant,” the doctor replied solemnly. “I have learned a lesson. Oh God, Utterson, what a lesson I have learned!” And he covered his face with his hands for a moment.

On his way out, the lawyer stopped and had a word or two with Poole. “By the bye,” said he, “there was a letter handed in to-day: what was the messenger like?” But Poole was positive nothing had come except by post; “and only circulars by that,” he added.

On his way out, the lawyer stopped for a brief word with Poole. “By the way,” he said, “a letter was delivered today. What did the messenger look like?” But Poole was certain nothing had arrived except by mail. “And the mail brought only advertising notices,” he added.

This news sent off the visitor with his fears renewed. Plainly the letter had come by the laboratory door; possibly, indeed, it had been written in the cabinet; and if that were so, it must be differently judged, and handled with the more caution. The newsboys, as he went, were crying themselves hoarse along the footways: “Special edition. Shocking murder of an M.P.” That was the funeral oration of one friend and client; and he could not help a certain apprehension lest the good name of another should be sucked down in the eddy of the scandal. It was, at least, a ticklish decision that he had to make; and self-reliant as he was by habit, he began to cherish a longing for advice. It was not to be had directly; but perhaps, he thought, it might be fished for.

The news sent the visitor away with his fears renewed. Clearly, the letter had come through the laboratory door. Perhaps it had even been written in the private study. If so, the letter had to be judged differently and handled with greater caution. As he walked, newsboys along the pavements were shouting themselves hoarse: “Special edition. Shocking murder of an M.P.” Those cries were the funeral tribute to one friend and client. And he could not help fearing that the scandal might drag down another friend’s good name. At the very least, he faced a delicate decision. Although he was used to relying on himself, he began to long for advice. He could not ask for advice directly. But perhaps, he thought, he could draw some out indirectly.

Presently after, he sat on one side of his own hearth, with Mr. Guest, his head clerk, upon the other, and midway between, at a nicely calculated distance from the fire, a bottle of a particular old wine that had long dwelt unsunned in the foundations of his house. The fog still slept on the wing above the drowned city, where the lamps glimmered like carbuncles; and through the muffle and smother of these fallen clouds, the procession of the town’s life was still rolling in through the great arteries with a sound as of a mighty wind. But the room was gay with firelight. In the bottle the acids were long ago resolved; the imperial dye had softened with time, as the colour grows richer in stained windows; and the glow of hot autumn afternoons on hillside vineyards, was ready to be set free and to disperse the fogs of London. Insensibly the lawyer melted. There was no man from whom he kept fewer secrets than Mr. Guest; and he was not always sure that he kept as many as he meant. Guest had often been on business to the doctor’s; he knew Poole; he could scarce have failed to hear of Mr. Hyde’s familiarity about the house; he might draw conclusions: was it not as well, then, that he should see a letter which put that mystery to rights? and above all since Guest, being a great student and critic of handwriting, would consider the step natural and obliging? The clerk, besides, was a man of counsel; he could scarce read so strange a document without dropping a remark; and by that remark Mr. Utterson might shape his future course.

Soon afterward, he sat on one side of his own fireplace, with Mr. Guest, his head clerk, on the other. Between them stood a bottle of fine old wine, placed at a carefully chosen distance from the fire. The wine had long rested out of sunlight in the cellars beneath his house. Fog still hovered over the submerged city, where the streetlamps gleamed like red jewels. Through the muffling blanket of low clouds, the city’s life still flowed along its main streets. The sound was like a mighty wind. But the room was cheerful with firelight. The wine’s acids had mellowed long ago. Its royal purple had softened with age, just as the colours in stained-glass windows grow richer over time. The warmth of hot autumn afternoons in hillside vineyards was ready to escape the bottle and scatter London’s fog. Without noticing, the lawyer began to relax. There were few people he kept fewer secrets from than Mr. Guest. He was not always sure he kept as many secrets from Guest as he intended. Guest had often visited the doctor on business. He knew Poole. He could hardly have failed to hear how freely Mr. Hyde came and went in the house. Guest might draw conclusions. Would it not be better, then, to show him a letter that cleared up the mystery? Besides, Guest was a keen student and judge of handwriting. He would see the gesture as natural and considerate. The clerk was also a man whose advice was worth having. He could hardly read so strange a document without making some remark. And that remark might help Mr. Utterson decide what to do next.

“This is a sad business about Sir Danvers,” he said.

“What happened to Sir Danvers is sad,” he said.

“Yes, sir, indeed. It has elicited a great deal of public feeling,” returned Guest. “The man, of course, was mad.”

“Yes, sir, indeed. It has stirred up a lot of public emotion,” Guest replied. “The man, of course, was insane.”

“I should like to hear your views on that,” replied Utterson. “I have a document here in his handwriting; it is between ourselves, for I scarce know what to do about it; it is an ugly business at the best. But there it is; quite in your way: a murderer’s autograph.”

“I’d like to hear what you think about that,” replied Utterson. “I have a document here in his handwriting. This is between us, because I hardly know what to do about the document. It’s an ugly business even at best. But here it is, just the sort of thing that interests you: a murderer’s handwriting.”

Guest’s eyes brightened, and he sat down at once and studied it with passion. “No sir,” he said: “not mad; but it is an odd hand.”

Guest’s eyes lit up, and he sat down at once and studied it eagerly. “No, sir,” he said. “Not insane, but the handwriting is unusual.”

“And by all accounts a very odd writer,” added the lawyer.

“And by all accounts, a very strange writer,” added the lawyer.

Just then the servant entered with a note.

Just then, the servant came in with a note.

“Is that from Dr. Jekyll, sir?” inquired the clerk. “I thought I knew the writing. Anything private, Mr. Utterson?”

“Is that from Dr. Jekyll, sir?” asked the clerk. “I thought I recognized the handwriting. Is it private, Mr. Utterson?”

“Only an invitation to dinner. Why? Do you want to see it?”

“Just an invitation to dinner. Why? Do you want to see it?”

“One moment. I thank you, sir;” and the clerk laid the two sheets of paper alongside and sedulously compared their contents. “Thank you, sir,” he said at last, returning both; “it’s a very interesting autograph.”

“One moment. Thank you, sir.” The clerk laid the two sheets of paper side by side and carefully compared their contents. “Thank you, sir,” he said at last, returning both sheets. “It’s a very interesting sample of handwriting.”

There was a pause, during which Mr. Utterson struggled with himself. “Why did you compare them, Guest?” he inquired suddenly.

There was a pause as Mr. Utterson struggled with himself. “Why did you compare them, Guest?” he suddenly asked.

“Well, sir,” returned the clerk, “there’s a rather singular resemblance; the two hands are in many points identical: only differently sloped.”

“Well, sir,” replied the clerk, “there’s a rather unusual resemblance. The two samples of handwriting are identical in many ways, except that they slant differently.”

“Rather quaint,” said Utterson.

“Rather odd,” said Utterson.

“It is, as you say, rather quaint,” returned Guest.

“As you say, it is rather unusual,” Guest replied.

“I wouldn’t speak of this note, you know,” said the master.

“I wouldn’t mention this note, you know,” said the master.

“No, sir,” said the clerk. “I understand.”

“No, sir,” said the clerk. “I understand.”

But no sooner was Mr. Utterson alone that night, than he locked the note into his safe, where it reposed from that time forward. “What!” he thought. “Henry Jekyll forge for a murderer!” And his blood ran cold in his veins.

But as soon as Mr. Utterson was alone that night, he locked the note in his safe. The note stayed there from then on. “What!” he thought. “Henry Jekyll forging a note for a murderer!” And his blood ran cold.