The Last Night

Mr. Utterson was sitting by his fireside one evening after dinner, when he was surprised to receive a visit from Poole.

Mr. Utterson was sitting by his fire one evening after dinner. He was surprised when Poole came to visit.

“Bless me, Poole, what brings you here?” he cried; and then taking a second look at him, “What ails you?” he added; “is the doctor ill?”

“My goodness, Poole, what brings you here?” he cried. Then he took another look at him. “What’s wrong?” he added. “Is the doctor ill?”

“Mr. Utterson,” said the man, “there is something wrong.”

“Mr. Utterson,” the man said, “something is wrong.”

“Take a seat, and here is a glass of wine for you,” said the lawyer. “Now, take your time, and tell me plainly what you want.”

“Have a seat, and here’s a glass of wine for you,” said the lawyer. “Now, take your time and tell me clearly what you want.”

“You know the doctor’s ways, sir,” replied Poole, “and how he shuts himself up. Well, he’s shut up again in the cabinet; and I don’t like it, sir—I wish I may die if I like it. Mr. Utterson, sir, I’m afraid.”

“You know the doctor’s habits, sir,” Poole replied, “and how he shuts himself away. Well, he’s shut himself away in his study again, and I don’t like it, sir. May I drop dead if I like it. Mr. Utterson, sir, I’m afraid.”

“Now, my good man,” said the lawyer, “be explicit. What are you afraid of?”

“Now, my friend,” said the lawyer, “be clear. What are you afraid of?”

“I’ve been afraid for about a week,” returned Poole, doggedly disregarding the question, “and I can bear it no more.”

“I’ve been afraid for about a week,” Poole replied, stubbornly ignoring the question. “And I can’t bear it anymore.”

The man’s appearance amply bore out his words; his manner was altered for the worse; and except for the moment when he had first announced his terror, he had not once looked the lawyer in the face. Even now, he sat with the glass of wine untasted on his knee, and his eyes directed to a corner of the floor. “I can bear it no more,” he repeated.

The man’s appearance fully backed up his words. His manner had changed for the worse. Except when he first spoke of his terror, he had not once looked the lawyer in the face. Even now, he sat with the untouched glass of wine on his knee, staring at a corner of the floor. “I can’t bear it anymore,” he repeated.

“Come,” said the lawyer, “I see you have some good reason, Poole; I see there is something seriously amiss. Try to tell me what it is.”

“Come on,” said the lawyer, “I can see you have a good reason, Poole. I can see something is seriously wrong. Try to tell me what’s wrong.”

“I think there’s been foul play,” said Poole, hoarsely.

“I think there’s been foul play,” Poole said in a hoarse voice.

“Foul play!” cried the lawyer, a good deal frightened and rather inclined to be irritated in consequence. “What foul play! What does the man mean?”

“Foul play!” cried the lawyer, quite frightened and therefore somewhat inclined to be annoyed. “What foul play! What does the man mean?”

“I daren’t say, sir,” was the answer; “but will you come along with me and see for yourself?”

“I don’t dare say, sir,” came the reply. “But will you come with me and see for yourself?”

Mr. Utterson’s only answer was to rise and get his hat and greatcoat; but he observed with wonder the greatness of the relief that appeared upon the butler’s face, and perhaps with no less, that the wine was still untasted when he set it down to follow.

Mr. Utterson’s only answer was to stand up and get his hat and overcoat. But he was surprised by how relieved the butler looked. Perhaps he was just as surprised that the butler set down his wine untouched before following him.

It was a wild, cold, seasonable night of March, with a pale moon, lying on her back as though the wind had tilted her, and flying wrack of the most diaphanous and lawny texture. The wind made talking difficult, and flecked the blood into the face. It seemed to have swept the streets unusually bare of passengers, besides; for Mr. Utterson thought he had never seen that part of London so deserted. He could have wished it otherwise; never in his life had he been conscious of so sharp a wish to see and touch his fellow-creatures; for struggle as he might, there was borne in upon his mind a crushing anticipation of calamity. The square, when they got there, was full of wind and dust, and the thin trees in the garden were lashing themselves along the railing. Poole, who had kept all the way a pace or two ahead, now pulled up in the middle of the pavement, and in spite of the biting weather, took off his hat and mopped his brow with a red pocket-handkerchief. But for all the hurry of his coming, these were not the dews of exertion that he wiped away, but the moisture of some strangling anguish; for his face was white and his voice, when he spoke, harsh and broken.

It was a wild, cold night, typical of March. A pale moon lay on her back as though the wind had tilted her. Clouds as thin and sheer as fine linen raced across the sky. The wind made talking difficult and brought the blood rushing to their faces. The wind also seemed to have swept the streets unusually clear of people. Mr. Utterson thought he had never seen that part of London so deserted. He wished there had been more people about. Never in his life had he felt such a strong desire to see and touch other human beings. For however hard he fought the feeling, a crushing sense of approaching disaster pressed upon his mind. When they reached the square, wind and dust filled the air. The slender trees in the garden thrashed against the railings. Poole had stayed a step or two ahead the whole way. Now he stopped in the middle of the pavement. Despite the biting cold, he took off his hat and wiped his forehead with a red handkerchief. But although he had hurried there, the sweat he wiped away did not come from exertion. It came from some anguish that seemed to choke him. For his face was white, and when he spoke, his voice was harsh and broken.

“Well, sir,” he said, “here we are, and God grant there be nothing wrong.”

“Well, sir,” he said, “here we are, and may God grant that nothing is wrong.”

“Amen, Poole,” said the lawyer.

“Amen, Poole,” the lawyer said.

Thereupon the servant knocked in a very guarded manner; the door was opened on the chain; and a voice asked from within, “Is that you, Poole?”

Then the servant knocked very cautiously. The door opened with the chain still fastened. A voice from inside asked, “Is that you, Poole?”

“It’s all right,” said Poole. “Open the door.”

“It’s all right,” said Poole. “Open the door.”

The hall, when they entered it, was brightly lighted up; the fire was built high; and about the hearth the whole of the servants, men and women, stood huddled together like a flock of sheep. At the sight of Mr. Utterson, the housemaid broke into hysterical whimpering; and the cook, crying out “Bless God! it’s Mr. Utterson,” ran forward as if to take him in her arms.

The hall was brightly lit when they entered. A large fire blazed in the fireplace. All the servants, men and women, stood huddled around the hearth like a flock of sheep. At the sight of Mr. Utterson, the housemaid began whimpering hysterically. The cook cried out, “Bless God! it’s Mr. Utterson,” and ran forward as if to hug him.

“What, what? Are you all here?” said the lawyer peevishly. “Very irregular, very unseemly; your master would be far from pleased.”

“What, what? Are you all here?” said the lawyer irritably. “Very improper, very inappropriate. Your master would be far from pleased.”

“They’re all afraid,” said Poole.

“They’re all afraid,” Poole said.

Blank silence followed, no one protesting; only the maid lifted her voice and now wept loudly.

A stunned silence followed. No one objected. Only the maid broke the silence, now crying loudly.

“Hold your tongue!” Poole said to her, with a ferocity of accent that testified to his own jangled nerves; and indeed, when the girl had so suddenly raised the note of her lamentation, they had all started and turned towards the inner door with faces of dreadful expectation. “And now,” continued the butler, addressing the knife-boy, “reach me a candle, and we’ll get this through hands at once.” And then he begged Mr. Utterson to follow him, and led the way to the back garden.

“Be quiet!” Poole said to her, his fierce tone revealing his own frayed nerves. Indeed, when the girl had suddenly begun crying louder, they had all startled and turned toward the inner door. Their faces showed fearful expectation. “And now,” the butler continued, speaking to the boy who cleaned the knives, “bring me a candle. We’ll get this over with at once.” Then he urged Mr. Utterson to follow him and led the way to the back garden.

“Now, sir,” said he, “you come as gently as you can. I want you to hear, and I don’t want you to be heard. And see here, sir, if by any chance he was to ask you in, don’t go.”

“Now, sir,” he said, “come as quietly as you can. I want you to hear, but I don’t want you to be heard. And listen, sir, if he happens to invite you in, don’t go.”

Mr. Utterson’s nerves, at this unlooked-for termination, gave a jerk that nearly threw him from his balance; but he recollected his courage and followed the butler into the laboratory building through the surgical theatre, with its lumber of crates and bottles, to the foot of the stair. Here Poole motioned him to stand on one side and listen; while he himself, setting down the candle and making a great and obvious call on his resolution, mounted the steps and knocked with a somewhat uncertain hand on the red baize of the cabinet door.

The unexpected ending gave Mr. Utterson such a shock that he nearly lost his balance. But he gathered his courage and followed the butler into the laboratory building. They passed through the operating theatre, cluttered with crates and bottles, to the foot of the stairs. Here Poole motioned for him to stand aside and listen. Poole set down the candle and made a great, visible effort to summon his courage. Then he climbed the steps and knocked with a slightly unsteady hand on the study door’s red baize covering.

“Mr. Utterson, sir, asking to see you,” he called; and even as he did so, once more violently signed to the lawyer to give ear.

“Mr. Utterson is asking to see you, sir,” he called. As he spoke, he again gestured urgently to the lawyer to listen.

A voice answered from within: “Tell him I cannot see anyone,” it said complainingly.

A voice answered from inside: “Tell him I can’t see anyone,” the voice said in a complaining tone.

“Thank you, sir,” said Poole, with a note of something like triumph in his voice; and taking up his candle, he led Mr. Utterson back across the yard and into the great kitchen, where the fire was out and the beetles were leaping on the floor.

“Thank you, sir,” said Poole, with something like triumph in his voice. He picked up his candle and led Mr. Utterson back across the yard and into the large kitchen. The fire was out, and beetles were jumping on the floor.

“Sir,” he said, looking Mr. Utterson in the eyes, “Was that my master’s voice?”

“Sir,” he said, looking Mr. Utterson in the eyes, “was that my master’s voice?”

“It seems much changed,” replied the lawyer, very pale, but giving look for look.

“It seems very different,” replied the lawyer. He was very pale, but he met the other man's gaze steadily.

“Changed? Well, yes, I think so,” said the butler. “Have I been twenty years in this man’s house, to be deceived about his voice? No, sir; master’s made away with; he was made away with eight days ago, when we heard him cry out upon the name of God; and who’s in there instead of him, and why it stays there, is a thing that cries to Heaven, Mr. Utterson!”

“Changed? Well, yes, I think so,” said the butler. “Have I spent twenty years in this man’s house only to be fooled about his voice? No, sir. My master has been murdered. He was murdered eight days ago, when we heard him cry out in God’s name. And who’s in there instead of him, and why it stays there, is an outrage before Heaven, Mr. Utterson!”

“That is a very strange tale, Poole; this is rather a wild tale my man,” said Mr. Utterson, biting his finger. “Suppose it were as you suppose, supposing Dr. Jekyll to have been—well, murdered, what could induce the murderer to stay? That won’t hold water; it doesn’t commend itself to reason.”

“That is a very strange story, Poole. A rather far-fetched story, my man,” said Mr. Utterson, biting his finger. “Suppose you’re right, and Dr. Jekyll has been, well, murdered. What could make the murderer stay? Your explanation doesn’t hold up. It doesn’t make sense.”

“Well, Mr. Utterson, you are a hard man to satisfy, but I’ll do it yet,” said Poole. “All this last week (you must know) him, or it, whatever it is that lives in that cabinet, has been crying night and day for some sort of medicine and cannot get it to his mind. It was sometimes his way—the master’s, that is—to write his orders on a sheet of paper and throw it on the stair. We’ve had nothing else this week back; nothing but papers, and a closed door, and the very meals left there to be smuggled in when nobody was looking. Well, sir, every day, ay, and twice and thrice in the same day, there have been orders and complaints, and I have been sent flying to all the wholesale chemists in town. Every time I brought the stuff back, there would be another paper telling me to return it, because it was not pure, and another order to a different firm. This drug is wanted bitter bad, sir, whatever for.”

“Well, Mr. Utterson, you’re a hard man to satisfy, but I’ll manage it yet,” said Poole. “You must understand, all this past week, he, or it, whatever lives in that private room, has been crying out for medicine. The cries go on night and day, but none of the medicine seems to satisfy him. The master sometimes used to write his orders on a sheet of paper and throw it onto the stairs. This past week, we’ve had nothing else. Nothing but papers and a closed door. Even the meals are left outside, to be slipped in when nobody is looking. Well, sir, every day, yes, and two or three times in the same day, there have been orders and complaints. I’ve been sent rushing to all the wholesale chemists in town. Every time I brought the medicine back, another paper would tell me to return it because it wasn’t pure. Then there would be another order to a different firm. This drug is desperately wanted, sir, whatever it’s for.”

“Have you any of these papers?” asked Mr. Utterson.

“Do you have any of these papers?” asked Mr. Utterson.

Poole felt in his pocket and handed out a crumpled note, which the lawyer, bending nearer to the candle, carefully examined. Its contents ran thus: “Dr. Jekyll presents his compliments to Messrs. Maw. He assures them that their last sample is impure and quite useless for his present purpose. In the year 18—, Dr. J. purchased a somewhat large quantity from Messrs. M. He now begs them to search with most sedulous care, and should any of the same quality be left, forward it to him at once. Expense is no consideration. The importance of this to Dr. J. can hardly be exaggerated.” So far the letter had run composedly enough, but here with a sudden splutter of the pen, the writer’s emotion had broken loose. “For God’s sake,” he added, “find me some of the old.”

Poole reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled note. He handed it to the lawyer, who leaned closer to the candle and examined it carefully. The note read: “Dr. Jekyll sends his regards to Messrs. Maw. He assures them that their last sample is impure and completely useless for his present purpose. In the year 18…, Dr. J. bought a fairly large quantity from Messrs. M. He now begs them to search with the greatest care. If any of the same quality remains, please send it to him at once. Cost does not matter. The importance of this request to Dr. J. can hardly be overstated.” Up to this point, the letter had been calm enough. But here, with a sudden splutter of the pen, the writer’s emotions had broken loose. “For God’s sake,” he added, “find me some of the old.”

“This is a strange note,” said Mr. Utterson; and then sharply, “How do you come to have it open?”

“This is a strange note,” said Mr. Utterson. Then he asked sharply, “Why is it already open?”

“The man at Maw’s was main angry, sir, and he threw it back to me like so much dirt,” returned Poole.

“The man at Maw’s was very angry, sir. And he threw it back at me like dirt,” Poole replied.

“This is unquestionably the doctor’s hand, do you know?” resumed the lawyer.

“This is definitely the doctor’s handwriting, you know?” the lawyer continued.

“I thought it looked like it,” said the servant rather sulkily; and then, with another voice, “But what matters hand of write?” he said. “I’ve seen him!”

“I thought it looked like it,” said the servant, rather sulkily. Then his tone changed. “But what does handwriting matter?” he said. “I’ve seen him!”

“Seen him?” repeated Mr. Utterson. “Well?”

“You’ve seen him?” Mr. Utterson repeated. “Well?”

“That’s it!” said Poole. “It was this way. I came suddenly into the theatre from the garden. It seems he had slipped out to look for this drug or whatever it is; for the cabinet door was open, and there he was at the far end of the room digging among the crates. He looked up when I came in, gave a kind of cry, and whipped upstairs into the cabinet. It was but for one minute that I saw him, but the hair stood upon my head like quills. Sir, if that was my master, why had he a mask upon his face? If it was my master, why did he cry out like a rat, and run from me? I have served him long enough. And then...” The man paused and passed his hand over his face.

“That’s it!” said Poole. “Here’s what happened. I came suddenly into the operating theatre from the garden. It seems he had slipped out to look for this drug or whatever it is. The door to the private study was open, and he was at the far end of the room, searching among the crates. He looked up when I came in, let out a kind of cry, and rushed upstairs into the study. I saw him for only a minute, but my hair stood on end like quills. Sir, if that was my master, why was he wearing a mask? If it was my master, why did he squeal like a rat and run away from me? I have served him long enough. And then...” The man paused and passed his hand over his face.

“These are all very strange circumstances,” said Mr. Utterson, “but I think I begin to see daylight. Your master, Poole, is plainly seized with one of those maladies that both torture and deform the sufferer; hence, for aught I know, the alteration of his voice; hence the mask and the avoidance of his friends; hence his eagerness to find this drug, by means of which the poor soul retains some hope of ultimate recovery—God grant that he be not deceived! There is my explanation; it is sad enough, Poole, ay, and appalling to consider; but it is plain and natural, hangs well together, and delivers us from all exorbitant alarms.”

“These are all very strange circumstances,” said Mr. Utterson, “but I think I’m beginning to understand. Your master, Poole, is clearly suffering from one of those illnesses that cause both terrible pain and physical disfigurement. For all I know, that illness could explain the change in his voice. It would also explain his mask and why he avoids his friends. And it would explain his eagerness to find this drug, which gives the poor soul some hope of eventual recovery. God grant that his hope is not mistaken! That is my explanation. It is sad enough, Poole, yes, and horrifying to think about. But the explanation is straightforward and natural, fits all the facts, and frees us from any extreme fears.”

“Sir,” said the butler, turning to a sort of mottled pallor, “that thing was not my master, and there’s the truth. My master”—here he looked round him and began to whisper—“is a tall, fine build of a man, and this was more of a dwarf.” Utterson attempted to protest. “O, sir,” cried Poole, “do you think I do not know my master after twenty years? Do you think I do not know where his head comes to in the cabinet door, where I saw him every morning of my life? No, sir, that thing in the mask was never Dr. Jekyll—God knows what it was, but it was never Dr. Jekyll; and it is the belief of my heart that there was murder done.”

“Sir,” said the butler, his face turning pale and blotchy, “that thing was not my master. That’s the truth.” He looked around and began to whisper. “My master is a tall, well-built man, and that thing was more like a dwarf.” Utterson tried to object. “Oh, sir,” cried Poole, “do you think I don’t know my master after twenty years? Do you think I don’t know how high his head reaches in the study doorway? I saw him there every morning of my life. No, sir, that thing in the mask was never Dr. Jekyll. God knows what it was, but it was never Dr. Jekyll. And I believe with all my heart that a murder has been committed.”

“Poole,” replied the lawyer, “if you say that, it will become my duty to make certain. Much as I desire to spare your master’s feelings, much as I am puzzled by this note which seems to prove him to be still alive, I shall consider it my duty to break in that door.”

“Poole,” the lawyer replied, “if you say that, I have a duty to find out for certain. I very much want to spare your master’s feelings. And I am very puzzled by this note, which seems to prove he is still alive. But despite all that, I will consider it my duty to break down that door.”

“Ah, Mr. Utterson, that’s talking!” cried the butler.

“Ah, Mr. Utterson, now you’re talking!” exclaimed the butler.

“And now comes the second question,” resumed Utterson: “Who is going to do it?”

“And now for the second question,” Utterson continued. “Who is going to do it?”

“Why, you and me, sir,” was the undaunted reply.

“Well, you and me, sir,” came the fearless reply.

“That’s very well said,” returned the lawyer; “and whatever comes of it, I shall make it my business to see you are no loser.”

“Well said,” the lawyer replied. “And whatever happens, I’ll make sure you don’t lose out.”

“There is an axe in the theatre,” continued Poole; “and you might take the kitchen poker for yourself.”

“There’s an axe in the operating theatre,” Poole continued. “And you might take the kitchen poker for yourself.”

The lawyer took that rude but weighty instrument into his hand, and balanced it. “Do you know, Poole,” he said, looking up, “that you and I are about to place ourselves in a position of some peril?”

The lawyer picked up the crude but heavy tool and balanced it in his hand. He looked up. “Do you know, Poole,” he said, “that you and I are about to put ourselves in some danger?”

“You may say so, sir, indeed,” returned the butler.

“You certainly can say that, sir,” replied the butler.

“It is well, then that we should be frank,” said the other. “We both think more than we have said; let us make a clean breast. This masked figure that you saw, did you recognise it?”

“Then we should be honest with each other,” said the other. “We both think more than we’ve said. Let’s say everything openly. Did you recognize the masked figure you saw?”

“Well, sir, it went so quick, and the creature was so doubled up, that I could hardly swear to that,” was the answer. “But if you mean, was it Mr. Hyde?—why, yes, I think it was! You see, it was much of the same bigness; and it had the same quick, light way with it; and then who else could have got in by the laboratory door? You have not forgot, sir, that at the time of the murder he had still the key with him? But that’s not all. I don’t know, Mr. Utterson, if you ever met this Mr. Hyde?”

“Well, sir, it happened so quickly, and the creature was bent so far over, that I could hardly be sure,” came the answer. “But if you mean, was it Mr. Hyde? Well, yes, I think it was! You see, the creature was about the same size and moved in the same quick, light way. And who else could have got in through the laboratory door? You haven’t forgotten, sir, that Hyde still had the key at the time of the murder? But that’s not all. I don’t know, Mr. Utterson, if you ever met this Mr. Hyde?”

“Yes,” said the lawyer, “I once spoke with him.”

“Yes,” said the lawyer, “I spoke to him once.”

“Then you must know as well as the rest of us that there was something queer about that gentleman—something that gave a man a turn—I don’t know rightly how to say it, sir, beyond this: that you felt in your marrow kind of cold and thin.”

“Then you must know as well as the rest of us that there was something strange about that gentleman. Something about him gave you a fright. I don’t quite know how to describe the feeling, sir, except that you felt cold and weak in your bones.”

“I own I felt something of what you describe,” said Mr. Utterson.

“I admit I felt some of what you describe,” said Mr. Utterson.

“Quite so, sir,” returned Poole. “Well, when that masked thing like a monkey jumped from among the chemicals and whipped into the cabinet, it went down my spine like ice. O, I know it’s not evidence, Mr. Utterson; I’m book-learned enough for that; but a man has his feelings, and I give you my bible-word it was Mr. Hyde!”

“Exactly, sir,” Poole replied. “Well, that masked, monkey-like thing jumped out from among the chemicals and darted into the private office. The sight sent an icy chill down my spine. Oh, I know that’s not evidence, Mr. Utterson. I’ve read enough to know that. But a man has his feelings, and I swear on the Bible it was Mr. Hyde!”

“Ay, ay,” said the lawyer. “My fears incline to the same point. Evil, I fear, founded—evil was sure to come—of that connection. Ay truly, I believe you; I believe poor Harry is killed; and I believe his murderer (for what purpose, God alone can tell) is still lurking in his victim’s room. Well, let our name be vengeance. Call Bradshaw.”

“Yes, yes,” said the lawyer. “My fears point in the same direction. Evil, I fear, came from that connection. Evil was sure to come from it. Yes, I truly believe you. I believe poor Harry has been killed. And I believe his murderer is still hiding in his victim’s room. God alone knows why. Well, let vengeance be our watchword. Call Bradshaw.”

The footman came at the summons, very white and nervous.

The servant came when called, looking very pale and nervous.

“Pull yourself together, Bradshaw,” said the lawyer. “This suspense, I know, is telling upon all of you; but it is now our intention to make an end of it. Poole, here, and I are going to force our way into the cabinet. If all is well, my shoulders are broad enough to bear the blame. Meanwhile, lest anything should really be amiss, or any malefactor seek to escape by the back, you and the boy must go round the corner with a pair of good sticks and take your post at the laboratory door. We give you ten minutes to get to your stations.”

“Pull yourself together, Bradshaw,” said the lawyer. “I know the suspense is wearing on all of you. But we now intend to put an end to the uncertainty. Poole and I are going to force our way into the private study. If all is well, I can take the blame. Meanwhile, you and the boy must go around the corner with a pair of sturdy sticks. Stand guard at the laboratory door, in case anything really is wrong or any criminal tries to escape through the back. We’ll give you ten minutes to get into position.”

As Bradshaw left, the lawyer looked at his watch. “And now, Poole, let us get to ours,” he said; and taking the poker under his arm, led the way into the yard. The scud had banked over the moon, and it was now quite dark. The wind, which only broke in puffs and draughts into that deep well of building, tossed the light of the candle to and fro about their steps, until they came into the shelter of the theatre, where they sat down silently to wait. London hummed solemnly all around; but nearer at hand, the stillness was only broken by the sounds of a footfall moving to and fro along the cabinet floor.

As Bradshaw left, the lawyer looked at his watch. “And now, Poole, let us get to our task,” he said. He tucked the poker under his arm and led the way into the yard. Clouds had gathered over the moon, and it was now completely dark. The wind reached the deep, enclosed yard only in gusts and drafts. It sent the candlelight flickering back and forth around their feet until they reached the shelter of the operating theatre. There they sat down silently to wait. London hummed solemnly all around them. But close by, only the sound of footsteps pacing back and forth across the private study broke the silence.

“So it will walk all day, sir,” whispered Poole; “ay, and the better part of the night. Only when a new sample comes from the chemist, there’s a bit of a break. Ah, it’s an ill conscience that’s such an enemy to rest! Ah, sir, there’s blood foully shed in every step of it! But hark again, a little closer—put your heart in your ears, Mr. Utterson, and tell me, is that the doctor’s foot?”

“So it walks all day, sir,” whispered Poole. “Yes, and most of the night. There’s only a short break when a new sample comes from the chemist. Ah, a guilty conscience is such an enemy of rest! Ah, sir, every step speaks of blood spilled in murder! But listen again, a little more closely. Listen with all your heart, Mr. Utterson, and tell me, is that the doctor’s footstep?”

The steps fell lightly and oddly, with a certain swing, for all they went so slowly; it was different indeed from the heavy creaking tread of Henry Jekyll. Utterson sighed. “Is there never anything else?” he asked.

The footsteps were light and odd, with a certain swing, even though they were so slow. They were very different from Henry Jekyll’s heavy, creaking tread. Utterson sighed. “Is there never anything else?” he asked.

Poole nodded. “Once,” he said. “Once I heard it weeping!”

Poole nodded. “Once,” he said. “Once I heard it crying!”

“Weeping? how that?” said the lawyer, conscious of a sudden chill of horror.

“Crying? What do you mean?” asked the lawyer, feeling a sudden chill of horror.

“Weeping like a woman or a lost soul,” said the butler. “I came away with that upon my heart, that I could have wept too.”

“Crying like a woman or a lost soul,” said the butler. “I left with such a heavy heart that I could have cried too.”

But now the ten minutes drew to an end. Poole disinterred the axe from under a stack of packing straw; the candle was set upon the nearest table to light them to the attack; and they drew near with bated breath to where that patient foot was still going up and down, up and down, in the quiet of the night.

But now the ten minutes were almost over. Poole pulled the axe out from under a pile of packing straw. The candle was placed on the nearest table to give them light for the attack. Holding their breath, they approached the spot where those steady footsteps still paced up and down, up and down, in the quiet night.

“Jekyll,” cried Utterson, with a loud voice, “I demand to see you.” He paused a moment, but there came no reply. “I give you fair warning, our suspicions are aroused, and I must and shall see you,” he resumed; “if not by fair means, then by foul—if not of your consent, then by brute force!”

“Jekyll,” Utterson shouted, “I demand to see you.” He paused for a moment, but there was no reply. “I’m warning you, we’re suspicious, and I must and will see you,” he continued. “If not peacefully, then by force. If you won’t agree, I’ll use brute force!”

“Utterson,” said the voice, “for God’s sake, have mercy!”

“Utterson,” the voice said, “for God’s sake, have mercy!”

“Ah, that’s not Jekyll’s voice—it’s Hyde’s!” cried Utterson. “Down with the door, Poole!”

“Ah, that’s not Jekyll’s voice. It’s Hyde’s!” shouted Utterson. “Break down the door, Poole!”

Poole swung the axe over his shoulder; the blow shook the building, and the red baize door leaped against the lock and hinges. A dismal screech, as of mere animal terror, rang from the cabinet. Up went the axe again, and again the panels crashed and the frame bounded; four times the blow fell; but the wood was tough and the fittings were of excellent workmanship; and it was not until the fifth, that the lock burst and the wreck of the door fell inwards on the carpet.

Poole swung the axe over his shoulder. The blow shook the building, and the red cloth-covered door jolted against its lock and hinges. A dreadful screech came from the private room, like the cry of an animal in sheer terror. The axe rose again, and again the panels cracked and the frame shook. Four blows fell, but the wood was tough and the fittings were expertly made. Only on the fifth blow did the lock break and the shattered door fall inward onto the carpet.

The besiegers, appalled by their own riot and the stillness that had succeeded, stood back a little and peered in. There lay the cabinet before their eyes in the quiet lamplight, a good fire glowing and chattering on the hearth, the kettle singing its thin strain, a drawer or two open, papers neatly set forth on the business table, and nearer the fire, the things laid out for tea; the quietest room, you would have said, and, but for the glazed presses full of chemicals, the most commonplace that night in London.

The men who had forced their way in were horrified by their own uproar and the silence that followed. They stepped back a little and peered inside. Before them lay the study in the quiet lamplight. A warm fire glowed and crackled in the fireplace, and the kettle whistled its thin tune. A drawer or two stood open, and papers were neatly arranged on the desk. Nearer the fire, everything was laid out for tea. You would have called it the quietest room in London that night. And except for the glass-fronted cabinets full of chemicals, you would have called it the most ordinary.

Right in the middle there lay the body of a man sorely contorted and still twitching. They drew near on tiptoe, turned it on his back and beheld the face of Edward Hyde. He was dressed in clothes far too large for him, clothes of the doctor’s bigness; the cords of his face still moved with a semblance of life, but life was quite gone; and by the crushed phial in the hand and the strong smell of kernels that hung upon the air, Utterson knew that he was looking on the body of a self-destroyer.

Right in the middle lay a man’s body, badly twisted and still twitching. They approached on tiptoe, rolled the body onto its back, and saw the face of Edward Hyde. He wore clothes far too large for him, clothes sized to fit the doctor. His facial muscles still twitched as though he were alive, but he was quite dead. A crushed vial lay in his hand, and a strong smell of bitter almonds hung in the air. From these signs, Utterson knew he was looking at the body of a man who had killed himself.

“We have come too late,” he said sternly, “whether to save or punish. Hyde is gone to his account; and it only remains for us to find the body of your master.”

“We have come too late,” he said sternly, “either to save or to punish. Hyde is dead, and all that remains is for us to find your master’s body.”

The far greater proportion of the building was occupied by the theatre, which filled almost the whole ground storey and was lighted from above, and by the cabinet, which formed an upper storey at one end and looked upon the court. A corridor joined the theatre to the door on the by-street; and with this the cabinet communicated separately by a second flight of stairs. There were besides a few dark closets and a spacious cellar. All these they now thoroughly examined. Each closet needed but a glance, for all were empty, and all, by the dust that fell from their doors, had stood long unopened. The cellar, indeed, was filled with crazy lumber, mostly dating from the times of the surgeon who was Jekyll’s predecessor; but even as they opened the door they were advertised of the uselessness of further search, by the fall of a perfect mat of cobweb which had for years sealed up the entrance. Nowhere was there any trace of Henry Jekyll, dead or alive.

Most of the building was taken up by the surgical theatre and the private study. The theatre filled almost the entire ground floor and was lit from above. The study occupied an upper floor at one end and overlooked the courtyard. A corridor connected the theatre to the door on the side street. A second staircase gave the study its own access to this corridor. There were also a few dark closets and a large cellar. They now searched all these spaces thoroughly. Each closet needed only a glance, since all were empty. Dust fell from the closet doors, showing that all had remained unopened for a long time. The cellar, however, was full of broken-down junk, mostly from the days of the surgeon who had occupied the building before Jekyll. But even as they opened the cellar door, they could tell that searching further would be useless. A solid sheet of cobwebs fell from the entrance, which the web had sealed for years. Nowhere was there any trace of Henry Jekyll, dead or alive.

Poole stamped on the flags of the corridor. “He must be buried here,” he said, hearkening to the sound.

Poole stamped on the stone floor of the corridor. “He must be buried here,” he said, listening to the sound.

“Or he may have fled,” said Utterson, and he turned to examine the door in the by-street. It was locked; and lying near by on the flags, they found the key, already stained with rust.

“Or he may have run away,” said Utterson, and he turned to examine the door in the side street. The door was locked. Nearby, on the paving stones, they found the key, already stained with rust.

“This does not look like use,” observed the lawyer.

“This doesn’t look like it’s been used,” said the lawyer.

“Use!” echoed Poole. “Do you not see, sir, it is broken? much as if a man had stamped on it.”

“Use!” repeated Poole. “Can't you see, sir, it's broken? It looks much as if a man had stomped on it.”

“Ay,” continued Utterson, “and the fractures, too, are rusty.” The two men looked at each other with a scare. “This is beyond me, Poole,” said the lawyer. “Let us go back to the cabinet.”

“Yes,” continued Utterson, “and the broken edges are rusty, too.” The two men looked at each other in alarm. “I can’t make sense of this, Poole,” said the lawyer. “Let’s go back to the private room.”

They mounted the stair in silence, and still with an occasional awestruck glance at the dead body, proceeded more thoroughly to examine the contents of the cabinet. At one table, there were traces of chemical work, various measured heaps of some white salt being laid on glass saucers, as though for an experiment in which the unhappy man had been prevented.

They climbed the stairs in silence and began examining the contents of the study more thoroughly. They still glanced occasionally at the dead body in awe. On one table were signs of chemical work, with several measured piles of a white salt on glass saucers. The salt seemed prepared for an experiment that the unfortunate man had been prevented from carrying out.

“That is the same drug that I was always bringing him,” said Poole; and even as he spoke, the kettle with a startling noise boiled over.

“That’s the same drug I used to bring him all the time,” said Poole. Just as he spoke, the kettle boiled over with a startling noise.

This brought them to the fireside, where the easy-chair was drawn cosily up, and the tea things stood ready to the sitter’s elbow, the very sugar in the cup. There were several books on a shelf; one lay beside the tea things open, and Utterson was amazed to find it a copy of a pious work, for which Jekyll had several times expressed a great esteem, annotated, in his own hand with startling blasphemies.

They came to the fireside, where a comfortable armchair had been pulled up close to the fire. Everything for tea stood ready within reach of anyone sitting there, with even the sugar already in the cup. There were several books on a shelf, and one lay open beside the tea things. Utterson was amazed to find that the open book was a religious work Jekyll had repeatedly praised highly. Yet Jekyll had written startling blasphemies in the margins, in his own handwriting.

Next, in the course of their review of the chamber, the searchers came to the cheval-glass, into whose depths they looked with an involuntary horror. But it was so turned as to show them nothing but the rosy glow playing on the roof, the fire sparkling in a hundred repetitions along the glazed front of the presses, and their own pale and fearful countenances stooping to look in.

Next, as they continued searching the room, the searchers came to the full-length mirror. They looked into its depths with a horror they could not control. But the mirror was angled to reflect only the rosy glow on the ceiling and the firelight, repeated a hundred times along the glass-fronted cabinets. It also showed their own pale, frightened faces as they bent down to look into the mirror.

“This glass has seen some strange things, sir,” whispered Poole.

“This mirror has seen some strange things, sir,” whispered Poole.

“And surely none stranger than itself,” echoed the lawyer in the same tones. “For what did Jekyll”—he caught himself up at the word with a start, and then conquering the weakness—“what could Jekyll want with it?” he said.

“And surely nothing is stranger than this,” echoed the lawyer in the same tone. “For what did Jekyll...” He stopped with a start at the name, then overcame his weakness. “What could Jekyll want with it?” he said.

“You may say that!” said Poole.

“You can say that again!” said Poole.

Next they turned to the business table. On the desk, among the neat array of papers, a large envelope was uppermost, and bore, in the doctor’s hand, the name of Mr. Utterson. The lawyer unsealed it, and several enclosures fell to the floor. The first was a will, drawn in the same eccentric terms as the one which he had returned six months before, to serve as a testament in case of death and as a deed of gift in case of disappearance; but in place of the name of Edward Hyde, the lawyer, with indescribable amazement read the name of Gabriel John Utterson. He looked at Poole, and then back at the paper, and last of all at the dead malefactor stretched upon the carpet.

Next they turned to the work desk. A large envelope lay on top of the neatly arranged papers. Mr. Utterson’s name was written on the envelope in the doctor’s handwriting. The lawyer opened it, and several documents fell to the floor. The first was a will, written in the same unusual terms as the one he had returned six months earlier. It was to serve as a will in case of death and a deed of gift in case of disappearance. But instead of Edward Hyde’s name, the lawyer read the name Gabriel John Utterson, to his indescribable amazement. He looked at Poole, then back at the paper, and finally at the dead criminal stretched out on the carpet.

“My head goes round,” he said. “He has been all these days in possession; he had no cause to like me; he must have raged to see himself displaced; and he has not destroyed this document.”

“My head is spinning,” he said. “He has been in control all these days. He had no reason to like me. He must have been furious to find himself replaced. And yet he has not destroyed this document.”

He caught up the next paper; it was a brief note in the doctor’s hand and dated at the top. “O Poole!” the lawyer cried, “he was alive and here this day. He cannot have been disposed of in so short a space; he must be still alive, he must have fled! And then, why fled? and how? and in that case, can we venture to declare this suicide? O, we must be careful. I foresee that we may yet involve your master in some dire catastrophe.”

He picked up the next paper. It was a short note in the doctor’s handwriting, with a date at the top. “Oh, Poole!” the lawyer cried, “he was alive and here today. He cannot have been killed in so little time. He must still be alive. He must have fled! But then, why did he flee? And how? And if he fled, can we risk calling this death a suicide? Oh, we must be careful. I fear we may yet drag your master into some terrible disaster.”

“Why don’t you read it, sir?” asked Poole.

“Why don’t you read it, sir?” Poole asked.

“My dear Utterson,—When this shall fall into your hands, I shall have disappeared, under what circumstances I have not the penetration to foresee, but my instinct and all the circumstances of my nameless situation tell me that the end is sure and must be early. Go then, and first read the narrative which Lanyon warned me he was to place in your hands; and if you care to hear more, turn to the confession of

“My dear Utterson, by the time you receive this, I will have disappeared. I cannot foresee the circumstances of my disappearance. But my instinct and all the circumstances of my unspeakable situation tell me the end is certain and must come soon. So first read the account Lanyon told me he would give you. And if you care to hear more, turn to the confession of

“Your unworthy and unhappy friend,

“Your undeserving and unhappy friend,

“HENRY JEKYLL.”

“HENRY JEKYLL.”

“There was a third enclosure?” asked Utterson.

“There was a third item enclosed?” asked Utterson.

“Here, sir,” said Poole, and gave into his hands a considerable packet sealed in several places.

“Here, sir,” said Poole, handing him a large packet sealed in several places.

The lawyer put it in his pocket. “I would say nothing of this paper. If your master has fled or is dead, we may at least save his credit. It is now ten; I must go home and read these documents in quiet; but I shall be back before midnight, when we shall send for the police.”

The lawyer put it in his pocket. “I would say nothing about this paper. If your master has fled or is dead, we may at least save his reputation. It is now ten. I must go home and read these documents in peace. But I will be back before midnight, when we will send for the police.”

They went out, locking the door of the theatre behind them; and Utterson, once more leaving the servants gathered about the fire in the hall, trudged back to his office to read the two narratives in which this mystery was now to be explained.

They went out, locking the door of the theatre behind them. Once again, Utterson left the servants gathered around the fire in the hall and trudged back to his office. There he would read the two accounts that would now explain the mystery.