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. “This glass 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. “You may say that!” 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. “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.”

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.”

“Why don’t you read it, sir?” asked Poole. “Because I fear,” replied the lawyer solemnly. “God grant I have no
cause for it!” And with that he brought the paper to his eyes and read
as follows:


“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

“Your unworthy and unhappy friend,

“HENRY JEKYLL.”


“There was a third enclosure?” asked Utterson. “Here, sir,” said Poole, and gave into his hands a considerable 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.”

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. DR. LANYON’S NARRATIVE

On the ninth of January, now four days ago, I received by the evening
delivery a registered envelope, addressed in the hand of my colleague
and old school companion, Henry Jekyll. I was a good deal surprised by
this; for we were by no means in the habit of correspondence; I had
seen the man, dined with him, indeed, the night before; and I could
imagine nothing in our intercourse that should justify formality of
registration. The contents increased my wonder; for this is how the
letter ran:

“10_th December_, 18—. “Dear Lanyon,—You are one of my oldest friends; and although we may
have differed at times on scientific questions, I cannot remember, at
least on my side, any break in our affection. There was never a day
when, if you had said to me, ‘Jekyll, my life, my honour, my reason,
depend upon you,’ I would not have sacrificed my left hand to help you. Lanyon, my life, my honour, my reason, are all at your mercy; if you
fail me to-night, I am lost. You might suppose, after this preface,
that I am going to ask you for something dishonourable to grant. Judge
for yourself. “I want you to postpone all other engagements for to-night—ay, even if
you were summoned to the bedside of an emperor; to take a cab, unless
your carriage should be actually at the door; and with this letter in
your hand for consultation, to drive straight to my house. Poole, my
butler, has his orders; you will find him waiting your arrival with a
locksmith. The door of my cabinet is then to be forced; and you are to
go in alone; to open the glazed press (letter E) on the left hand,
breaking the lock if it be shut; and to draw out, _with all its
contents as they stand_, the fourth drawer from the top or (which is
the same thing) the third from the bottom. In my extreme distress of
mind, I have a morbid fear of misdirecting you; but even if I am in
error, you may know the right drawer by its contents: some powders, a
phial and a paper book. This drawer I beg of you to carry back with you
to Cavendish Square exactly as it stands. “That is the first part of the service: now for the second. You should
be back, if you set out at once on the receipt of this, long before
midnight; but I will leave you that amount of margin, not only in the
fear of one of those obstacles that can neither be prevented nor
foreseen, but because an hour when your servants are in bed is to be
preferred for what will then remain to do. At midnight, then, I have to
ask you to be alone in your consulting room, to admit with your own
hand into the house a man who will present himself in my name, and to
place in his hands the drawer that you will have brought with you from
my cabinet. Then you will have played your part and earned my gratitude
completely. Five minutes afterwards, if you insist upon an explanation,
you will have understood that these arrangements are of capital
importance; and that by the neglect of one of them, fantastic as they
must appear, you might have charged your conscience with my death or
the shipwreck of my reason. “Confident as I am that you will not trifle with this appeal, my heart
sinks and my hand trembles at the bare thought of such a possibility. Think of me at this hour, in a strange place, labouring under a
blackness of distress that no fancy can exaggerate, and yet well aware
that, if you will but punctually serve me, my troubles will roll away
like a story that is told. Serve me, my dear Lanyon and save

“Your friend,


“H.J. “P.S.—I had already sealed this up when a fresh terror struck upon my
soul. It is possible that the post-office may fail me, and this letter
not come into your hands until to-morrow morning. In that case, dear
Lanyon, do my errand when it shall be most convenient for you in the
course of the day; and once more expect my messenger at midnight.