`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.
On his way out, the lawyer stopped and had a word or two with Poole.
`By the by,' said he, `there was a letter handed in today: what was the messenger like?' But Poole was positive nothing had come except by post;`and only circulars by that,' 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 news boys, as he went, were crying themselves hoarse along the footways: `Special edition. Shocking murder of an MP.'
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.
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 would scarce read so strange a document without dropping a remark; and by that remark Mr Utterson might shape his future course.
`This is a sad business about Sir Danvers,' he said.
`Yes, sir, indeed. It has elicited a great deal of public feeling,' returned Guest. `The man, of course, was mad.'
`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.'
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.'
`And by all accounts a very odd writer,' added the lawyer.
Just then the servant entered with a note.
`Is that from Dr Jekyll, sir?' inquired the clerk. `I thought I knew the writing. Anything private, Mr Utterson?'
`Only 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.'
There was a pause, during which Mr Utterson struggled with himself.
`Why did you compare them, Guest?' he inquired suddenly.
`Well, sir,' returned the clerk, `there's a rather singular resemblance;the two hands are in many points identical; only differently sloped.'
`Rather quaint,' said Utterson.
`It is, as you say, rather quaint,' returned Guest.
`I wouldn't speak of this note, you know,' said the master.
`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.
