MR. UTTERSON the lawyer was a man of a rugged countenance, that was\u00a0never lighted by a smile; cold, scanty and embarrassed in\u00a0discourse; backward in sentiment; lean, long, dusty, dreary, and\u00a0yet somehow lovable. At friendly meetings, and when the wine was to\u00a0his taste, something eminently human beaconed from his eye;\u00a0something indeed which never found its way into his talk, but which\u00a0spoke not only in these silent symbols of the after-dinner face, but\u00a0more often and loudly in the acts of his life. He was austere with\u00a0himself; drank gin when he was alone, to mortify a taste for\u00a0vintages; and though he enjoyed the theatre, had not crossed the\u00a0doors of one for twenty years. But he had an approved tolerance for\u00a0others; sometimes wondering, almost with envy, at the high pressure\u00a0of spirits involved in their misdeeds; and in any extremity inclined\u00a0to help rather than to reprove.<\/p>\r\n
\"I incline to Cain's heresy,\" he used to say quaintly: \"I let my\u00a0brother go to the devil in his own way.\" In this character, it was\u00a0frequently his fortune to be the last reputable acquaintance and the\u00a0last good influence in the lives of down-going men. And to such as\u00a0these, so long as they came about his chambers, he never marked a\u00a0shade of change in his demeanour.<\/p>\r\n
No doubt the feat was easy to Mr. Utterson; for he was\u00a0undemonstrative at the best, and even his friendship seemed to be\u00a0founded in a similar catholicity of good-nature. It is the mark of a\u00a0modest man to accept his friendly circle ready-made from the hands\u00a0of opportunity; and that was the lawyer's way. His friends were\u00a0those of his own blood or those whom he had known the longest; his\u00a0affections, like ivy, were the growth of time, they implied no\u00a0aptness in the object. Hence, no doubt, the bond that united him to\u00a0Mr. Richard Enfield, his distant kinsman, the well-known man about\u00a0town. It was a nut to crack for many, what these two could see in\u00a0each other, or what subject they could find in common. It was\u00a0reported by those who encountered them in their Sunday walks, that\u00a0they said nothing, looked singularly dull, and would hail with\u00a0obvious relief the appearance of a friend. For all that, the two men\u00a0put the greatest store by these excursions, counted them the chief\u00a0jewel of each week, and not only set aside occasions of pleasure,\u00a0but even resisted the calls of business, that they might enjoy them uninterrupted.<\/p>\r\n
It chanced on one of these rambles that their way led them down a\u00a0by-street in a busy quarter of London. The street was small and\u00a0what is called quiet, but it drove a thriving trade on the\u00a0week-days. The inhabitants were all doing well, it seemed, and all\u00a0emulously hoping to do better still, and laying out the surplus of\u00a0their gains in coquetry; so that the shop fronts stood along that\u00a0thoroughfare with an air of invitation, like rows of smiling\u00a0saleswomen. Even on Sunday, when it veiled its more florid charms\u00a0and lay comparatively empty of passage, the street shone out in\u00a0contrast to its dingy neighbourhood, like a fire in a forest; and\u00a0with its freshly painted shutters, well-polished brasses, and\u00a0general cleanliness and gaiety of note, instantly caught and pleased\u00a0the eye of the passenger.<\/p>\r\n
Two doors from one corner, on the left hand going east, the line\u00a0was broken by the entry of a court; and just at that point, a\u00a0certain sinister block of building thrust forward its gable on the\u00a0street. It was two stories high; showed no window, nothing but a\u00a0door on the lower story and a blind forehead of discoloured wall on\u00a0the upper; and bore in every feature, the marks of prolonged and\u00a0sordid negligence. The door, which was equipped with neither bell\u00a0nor knocker, was blistered and distained. Tramps slouched into the\u00a0recess and struck matches on\u00a0the panels; children kept shop upon the steps; the schoolboy had\u00a0tried his knife on the mouldings; and for close on a generation, no\u00a0one had appeared to drive away these random visitors or to repair\u00a0their ravages.<\/p>\r\n
Mr. Enfield and the lawyer were on the other side of the by-street;\u00a0but when they came abreast of the entry, the former lifted up his\u00a0cane and pointed.<\/p>\r\n
\"Did you ever remark that door?\" he asked; and when his companion\u00a0had replied in the affirmative, \"It is connected in my mind,\" added\u00a0he, \"with a very odd story.\"<\/p>\r\n
\"Indeed?\" said Mr. Utterson, with a slight change of voice, \"and\u00a0what was that?\"<\/p>\r\n
\"Well, it was this way,\" returned Mr. Enfield: \"I was coming home\u00a0from some place at the end of the world, about three o'clock of a\u00a0black winter morning, and my way lay through a part of town where\u00a0there was literally nothing to be seen but lamps. Street after\u00a0street, and all the folks asleep\u2014street after street, all lighted\u00a0up as if for a procession and all as empty as a church\u2014till at\u00a0last I got into that state of mind when a man listens and listens\u00a0and begins to long for the sight of a policeman. All at once, I saw\u00a0two figures: one a little man who was stumping along eastward at a\u00a0good walk, and the other a girl of maybe eight or ten who was\u00a0running as hard as she was able down a cross street. Well, sir, the\u00a0two ran into one another naturally enough at the\u00a0corner; and then came the horrible part of the thing; for the man\u00a0trampled calmly over the child's body and left her screaming on\u00a0the ground. It sounds nothing to hear, but it was hellish to see.\u00a0It wasn't like a man; it was like some damned Juggernaut. I gave a\u00a0view-halloa, took to my heels, collared my gentleman, and brought\u00a0him back to where there was already quite a group about the\u00a0screaming child. He was perfectly cool and made no resistance, but\u00a0gave me one look, so ugly that it brought out the sweat on me like\u00a0running. The people who had turned out were the girl's own family;\u00a0and pretty soon, the doctor, for whom she had been sent, put in his\u00a0appearance. Well, the child was not much the worse, more frightened,\u00a0according to the Sawbones; and there you might have supposed would\u00a0be an end to it. But there was one curious circumstance. I had taken\u00a0a loathing to my gentleman at first sight. So had the child's\u00a0family, which was only natural. But the doctor's case was what\u00a0struck me. He was the usual cut-and-dry apothecary, of no particular\u00a0age and colour, with a strong Edinburgh accent, and about as\u00a0emotional as a bagpipe. Well, sir, he was like the rest of us; every\u00a0time he looked at my prisoner, I saw that Sawbones turn sick and\u00a0white with the desire to kill him. I knew what was in his mind, just\u00a0as he knew what was in mine; and killing being out of the question,\u00a0we did the next best. We told the man we could\u00a0and would make such a scandal out of this, as should make his name\u00a0stink from one end of London to the other. If he had any friends or\u00a0any credit, we undertook that he should lose them. And all the time,\u00a0as we were pitching it in red hot, we were keeping the women off him\u00a0as best we could, for they were as wild as harpies. I never saw a\u00a0circle of such hateful faces; and there was the man in the middle,\u00a0with a kind of black, sneering coolness\u2014frightened too, I could\u00a0see that\u2014but carrying it off, sir, really like Satan. 'If you\u00a0choose to make capital out of this accident,' said he, 'I am\u00a0naturally helpless. No gentleman but wishes to avoid a scene,' says\u00a0he. 'Name your figure.' Well, we screwed him up to a hundred pounds\u00a0for the child's family; he would have clearly liked to stick out;\u00a0but there was something about the lot of us that meant mischief, and\u00a0at last he struck. The next thing was to get the money; and where\u00a0do you think he carried us but to that place with the door?\u2014whipped out a key, went in, and presently came back with the matter\u00a0of ten pounds in gold and a cheque for the balance on Coutts's,\u00a0drawn payable to bearer and signed with a name that I can't mention,\u00a0though it's one of the points of my story, but it was a name at\u00a0least very well known and often printed. The figure was stiff; but\u00a0the signature was good for more than that, if it was only genuine. I\u00a0took the liberty of pointing out to my gentleman that the whole\u00a0business looked apocryphal, and that a man does not, in real life,\u00a0walk into a cellar door at four in the morning and come out of it\u00a0with another man's cheque for close upon a hundred pounds. But he\u00a0was quite easy and sneering. 'Set your mind at rest,' says he, 'I\u00a0will stay with you till the banks open and cash the cheque myself.'\u00a0So we all set off, the doctor, and the child's father, and our\u00a0friend and myself, and passed the rest of the night in my chambers;\u00a0and next day, when we had breakfasted, went in a body to the bank. I\u00a0gave in the check myself, and said I had every reason to believe it\u00a0was a forgery. Not a bit of it. The cheque was genuine.\"<\/p>\r\n
\"Tut-tut,\" said Mr. Utterson.<\/p>\r\n
\"I see you feel as I do,\" said Mr. Enfield. \"Yes, it's a bad story.\u00a0For my man was a fellow that nobody could have to do with, a really\u00a0damnable man; and the person that drew the cheque is the very pink\u00a0of the proprieties, celebrated too, and (what makes it worse) one of\u00a0your fellows who do what they call good. Blackmail, I suppose; an\u00a0honest man paying through the nose for some of the capers of his\u00a0youth. Black Mail House is what I call that place with the door, in\u00a0consequence. Though even that, you know, is far from explaining\u00a0all,\" he added, and with the words fell into a vein of musing.<\/p>\r\n
From this he was recalled by Mr. Utterson asking rather suddenly:\u00a0\"And you don't know if the drawer of the cheque lives there?\"<\/p>\r\n
\"A likely place, isn't it?\" returned Mr. Enfield. \"But I happen to\u00a0have noticed his address; he lives in some square or other.\"<\/p>\r\n
\"And you never asked about the\u2014place with the door?\" said Mr.\u00a0Utterson.<\/p>\r\n
\"No, sir: I had a delicacy,\" was the reply. \"I feel very strongly\u00a0about putting questions; it partakes too much of the style of the\u00a0day of judgment. You start a question, and it's like starting a\u00a0stone. You sit quietly on the top of a hill; and away the stone\u00a0goes, starting others; and presently some bland old bird (the last\u00a0you would have thought of) is knocked on the head in his own\u00a0back-garden and the family have to change their name. No, sir, I\u00a0make it a rule of mine: the more it looks like Queer Street, the\u00a0less I ask.\"<\/p>\r\n
\"A very good rule, too,\" said the lawyer.<\/p>\r\n
\"But I have studied the place for myself,\" continued Mr. Enfield.\u00a0\"It seems scarcely a house. There is no other door, and nobody goes\u00a0in or out of that one but, once in a great while, the gentleman of\u00a0my adventure. There are three windows looking on the court on the\u00a0first floor; none below; the windows are always shut but they're\u00a0clean. And then there is a chimney which is generally smoking; so\u00a0somebody must live there. And yet it's not so sure; for the\u00a0buildings are so packed together about that court, that it's hard to\u00a0say where one ends and another begins.\"<\/p>\r\n
The pair walked on again for a while in silence; and then,\u00a0\"Enfield,\" said Mr. Utterson, \"that's a good rule of yours.\"<\/p>\r\n
\"Yes, I think it is,\" returned Enfield.<\/p>\r\n
\"But for all that,\" continued the lawyer, \"there's one point I want\u00a0to ask: I want to ask the name of that man who walked over the\u00a0child.\"<\/p>\r\n
\"Well,\" said Mr. Enfield, \"I can't see what harm it would do. It\u00a0was a man of the name of Hyde.\"<\/p>\r\n
\"H'm,\" said Mr. Utterson. \"What sort of a man is he to see?\"<\/p>\r\n
\"He is not easy to describe. There is something wrong with his\u00a0appearance; something displeasing, something downright detestable. I\u00a0never saw a man I so disliked, and yet I scarce know why. He must be\u00a0deformed somewhere; he gives a strong feeling of deformity, although\u00a0I couldn't specify the point. He's an extraordinary-looking man, and\u00a0yet I really can name nothing out of the way. No, sir; I can make no\u00a0hand of it; I can't describe him. And it's not want of memory; for I\u00a0declare I can see him this moment.\"<\/p>\r\n
Mr. Utterson again walked some way in silence and obviously under a\u00a0weight of consideration.<\/p>\r\n
\"You are sure he used a key?\" he inquired at last.<\/p>\r\n
\"My dear sir\u2026\" began Enfield, surprised out of himself.<\/p>\r\n
\"Yes, I know,\" said Utterson; \"I know it must seem strange. The\u00a0fact is, if I do not ask you the name of the other party, it is\r\nbecause I know it already. You see, Richard, your tale has gone\u00a0home. If you have been inexact in any point, you had better correct\u00a0it.\"<\/p>\r\n
\"I think you might have warned me,\" returned the other, with a\u00a0touch of sullenness. \"But I have been pedantically exact, as you\u00a0call it. The fellow had a key; and what's more, he has it still. I\u00a0saw him use it, not a week ago.\"<\/p>\r\n
Mr. Utterson sighed deeply but said never a word; and the young man\u00a0presently resumed. \"Here is another lesson to say nothing,\" said he.\u00a0\"I am ashamed of my long tongue. Let us make a bargain never to\u00a0refer to this again.\"<\/p>\r\n
\"With all my heart,\" said the lawyer. \"I shake hands on that,\u00a0Richard.\"<\/p>","rendered":"
MR. UTTERSON the lawyer was a man of a rugged countenance, that was\u00a0never lighted by a smile; cold, scanty and embarrassed in\u00a0discourse; backward in sentiment; lean, long, dusty, dreary, and\u00a0yet somehow lovable. At friendly meetings, and when the wine was to\u00a0his taste, something eminently human beaconed from his eye;\u00a0something indeed which never found its way into his talk, but which\u00a0spoke not only in these silent symbols of the after-dinner face, but\u00a0more often and loudly in the acts of his life. He was austere with\u00a0himself; drank gin when he was alone, to mortify a taste for\u00a0vintages; and though he enjoyed the theatre, had not crossed the\u00a0doors of one for twenty years. But he had an approved tolerance for\u00a0others; sometimes wondering, almost with envy, at the high pressure\u00a0of spirits involved in their misdeeds; and in any extremity inclined\u00a0to help rather than to reprove.<\/p>\n
“I incline to Cain’s heresy,” he used to say quaintly: “I let my\u00a0brother go to the devil in his own way.” In this character, it was\u00a0frequently his fortune to be the last reputable acquaintance and the\u00a0last good influence in the lives of down-going men. And to such as\u00a0these, so long as they came about his chambers, he never marked a\u00a0shade of change in his demeanour.<\/p>\n
No doubt the feat was easy to Mr. Utterson; for he was\u00a0undemonstrative at the best, and even his friendship seemed to be\u00a0founded in a similar catholicity of good-nature. It is the mark of a\u00a0modest man to accept his friendly circle ready-made from the hands\u00a0of opportunity; and that was the lawyer’s way. His friends were\u00a0those of his own blood or those whom he had known the longest; his\u00a0affections, like ivy, were the growth of time, they implied no\u00a0aptness in the object. Hence, no doubt, the bond that united him to\u00a0Mr. Richard Enfield, his distant kinsman, the well-known man about\u00a0town. It was a nut to crack for many, what these two could see in\u00a0each other, or what subject they could find in common. It was\u00a0reported by those who encountered them in their Sunday walks, that\u00a0they said nothing, looked singularly dull, and would hail with\u00a0obvious relief the appearance of a friend. For all that, the two men\u00a0put the greatest store by these excursions, counted them the chief\u00a0jewel of each week, and not only set aside occasions of pleasure,\u00a0but even resisted the calls of business, that they might enjoy them uninterrupted.<\/p>\n
It chanced on one of these rambles that their way led them down a\u00a0by-street in a busy quarter of London. The street was small and\u00a0what is called quiet, but it drove a thriving trade on the\u00a0week-days. The inhabitants were all doing well, it seemed, and all\u00a0emulously hoping to do better still, and laying out the surplus of\u00a0their gains in coquetry; so that the shop fronts stood along that\u00a0thoroughfare with an air of invitation, like rows of smiling\u00a0saleswomen. Even on Sunday, when it veiled its more florid charms\u00a0and lay comparatively empty of passage, the street shone out in\u00a0contrast to its dingy neighbourhood, like a fire in a forest; and\u00a0with its freshly painted shutters, well-polished brasses, and\u00a0general cleanliness and gaiety of note, instantly caught and pleased\u00a0the eye of the passenger.<\/p>\n
Two doors from one corner, on the left hand going east, the line\u00a0was broken by the entry of a court; and just at that point, a\u00a0certain sinister block of building thrust forward its gable on the\u00a0street. It was two stories high; showed no window, nothing but a\u00a0door on the lower story and a blind forehead of discoloured wall on\u00a0the upper; and bore in every feature, the marks of prolonged and\u00a0sordid negligence. The door, which was equipped with neither bell\u00a0nor knocker, was blistered and distained. Tramps slouched into the\u00a0recess and struck matches on\u00a0the panels; children kept shop upon the steps; the schoolboy had\u00a0tried his knife on the mouldings; and for close on a generation, no\u00a0one had appeared to drive away these random visitors or to repair\u00a0their ravages.<\/p>\n
Mr. Enfield and the lawyer were on the other side of the by-street;\u00a0but when they came abreast of the entry, the former lifted up his\u00a0cane and pointed.<\/p>\n
“Did you ever remark that door?” he asked; and when his companion\u00a0had replied in the affirmative, “It is connected in my mind,” added\u00a0he, “with a very odd story.”<\/p>\n
“Indeed?” said Mr. Utterson, with a slight change of voice, “and\u00a0what was that?”<\/p>\n
“Well, it was this way,” returned Mr. Enfield: “I was coming home\u00a0from some place at the end of the world, about three o’clock of a\u00a0black winter morning, and my way lay through a part of town where\u00a0there was literally nothing to be seen but lamps. Street after\u00a0street, and all the folks asleep\u2014street after street, all lighted\u00a0up as if for a procession and all as empty as a church\u2014till at\u00a0last I got into that state of mind when a man listens and listens\u00a0and begins to long for the sight of a policeman. All at once, I saw\u00a0two figures: one a little man who was stumping along eastward at a\u00a0good walk, and the other a girl of maybe eight or ten who was\u00a0running as hard as she was able down a cross street. Well, sir, the\u00a0two ran into one another naturally enough at the\u00a0corner; and then came the horrible part of the thing; for the man\u00a0trampled calmly over the child’s body and left her screaming on\u00a0the ground. It sounds nothing to hear, but it was hellish to see.\u00a0It wasn’t like a man; it was like some damned Juggernaut. I gave a\u00a0view-halloa, took to my heels, collared my gentleman, and brought\u00a0him back to where there was already quite a group about the\u00a0screaming child. He was perfectly cool and made no resistance, but\u00a0gave me one look, so ugly that it brought out the sweat on me like\u00a0running. The people who had turned out were the girl’s own family;\u00a0and pretty soon, the doctor, for whom she had been sent, put in his\u00a0appearance. Well, the child was not much the worse, more frightened,\u00a0according to the Sawbones; and there you might have supposed would\u00a0be an end to it. But there was one curious circumstance. I had taken\u00a0a loathing to my gentleman at first sight. So had the child’s\u00a0family, which was only natural. But the doctor’s case was what\u00a0struck me. He was the usual cut-and-dry apothecary, of no particular\u00a0age and colour, with a strong Edinburgh accent, and about as\u00a0emotional as a bagpipe. Well, sir, he was like the rest of us; every\u00a0time he looked at my prisoner, I saw that Sawbones turn sick and\u00a0white with the desire to kill him. I knew what was in his mind, just\u00a0as he knew what was in mine; and killing being out of the question,\u00a0we did the next best. We told the man we could\u00a0and would make such a scandal out of this, as should make his name\u00a0stink from one end of London to the other. If he had any friends or\u00a0any credit, we undertook that he should lose them. And all the time,\u00a0as we were pitching it in red hot, we were keeping the women off him\u00a0as best we could, for they were as wild as harpies. I never saw a\u00a0circle of such hateful faces; and there was the man in the middle,\u00a0with a kind of black, sneering coolness\u2014frightened too, I could\u00a0see that\u2014but carrying it off, sir, really like Satan. ‘If you\u00a0choose to make capital out of this accident,’ said he, ‘I am\u00a0naturally helpless. No gentleman but wishes to avoid a scene,’ says\u00a0he. ‘Name your figure.’ Well, we screwed him up to a hundred pounds\u00a0for the child’s family; he would have clearly liked to stick out;\u00a0but there was something about the lot of us that meant mischief, and\u00a0at last he struck. The next thing was to get the money; and where\u00a0do you think he carried us but to that place with the door?\u2014whipped out a key, went in, and presently came back with the matter\u00a0of ten pounds in gold and a cheque for the balance on Coutts’s,\u00a0drawn payable to bearer and signed with a name that I can’t mention,\u00a0though it’s one of the points of my story, but it was a name at\u00a0least very well known and often printed. The figure was stiff; but\u00a0the signature was good for more than that, if it was only genuine. I\u00a0took the liberty of pointing out to my gentleman that the whole\u00a0business looked apocryphal, and that a man does not, in real life,\u00a0walk into a cellar door at four in the morning and come out of it\u00a0with another man’s cheque for close upon a hundred pounds. But he\u00a0was quite easy and sneering. ‘Set your mind at rest,’ says he, ‘I\u00a0will stay with you till the banks open and cash the cheque myself.’\u00a0So we all set off, the doctor, and the child’s father, and our\u00a0friend and myself, and passed the rest of the night in my chambers;\u00a0and next day, when we had breakfasted, went in a body to the bank. I\u00a0gave in the check myself, and said I had every reason to believe it\u00a0was a forgery. Not a bit of it. The cheque was genuine.”<\/p>\n
“Tut-tut,” said Mr. Utterson.<\/p>\n
“I see you feel as I do,” said Mr. Enfield. “Yes, it’s a bad story.\u00a0For my man was a fellow that nobody could have to do with, a really\u00a0damnable man; and the person that drew the cheque is the very pink\u00a0of the proprieties, celebrated too, and (what makes it worse) one of\u00a0your fellows who do what they call good. Blackmail, I suppose; an\u00a0honest man paying through the nose for some of the capers of his\u00a0youth. Black Mail House is what I call that place with the door, in\u00a0consequence. Though even that, you know, is far from explaining\u00a0all,” he added, and with the words fell into a vein of musing.<\/p>\n
From this he was recalled by Mr. Utterson asking rather suddenly:\u00a0“And you don’t know if the drawer of the cheque lives there?”<\/p>\n
“A likely place, isn’t it?” returned Mr. Enfield. “But I happen to\u00a0have noticed his address; he lives in some square or other.”<\/p>\n
“And you never asked about the\u2014place with the door?” said Mr.\u00a0Utterson.<\/p>\n
“No, sir: I had a delicacy,” was the reply. “I feel very strongly\u00a0about putting questions; it partakes too much of the style of the\u00a0day of judgment. You start a question, and it’s like starting a\u00a0stone. You sit quietly on the top of a hill; and away the stone\u00a0goes, starting others; and presently some bland old bird (the last\u00a0you would have thought of) is knocked on the head in his own\u00a0back-garden and the family have to change their name. No, sir, I\u00a0make it a rule of mine: the more it looks like Queer Street, the\u00a0less I ask.”<\/p>\n
“A very good rule, too,” said the lawyer.<\/p>\n
“But I have studied the place for myself,” continued Mr. Enfield.\u00a0“It seems scarcely a house. There is no other door, and nobody goes\u00a0in or out of that one but, once in a great while, the gentleman of\u00a0my adventure. There are three windows looking on the court on the\u00a0first floor; none below; the windows are always shut but they’re\u00a0clean. And then there is a chimney which is generally smoking; so\u00a0somebody must live there. And yet it’s not so sure; for the\u00a0buildings are so packed together about that court, that it’s hard to\u00a0say where one ends and another begins.”<\/p>\n
The pair walked on again for a while in silence; and then,\u00a0“Enfield,” said Mr. Utterson, “that’s a good rule of yours.”<\/p>\n
“Yes, I think it is,” returned Enfield.<\/p>\n
“But for all that,” continued the lawyer, “there’s one point I want\u00a0to ask: I want to ask the name of that man who walked over the\u00a0child.”<\/p>\n
“Well,” said Mr. Enfield, “I can’t see what harm it would do. It\u00a0was a man of the name of Hyde.”<\/p>\n
“H’m,” said Mr. Utterson. “What sort of a man is he to see?”<\/p>\n
“He is not easy to describe. There is something wrong with his\u00a0appearance; something displeasing, something downright detestable. I\u00a0never saw a man I so disliked, and yet I scarce know why. He must be\u00a0deformed somewhere; he gives a strong feeling of deformity, although\u00a0I couldn’t specify the point. He’s an extraordinary-looking man, and\u00a0yet I really can name nothing out of the way. No, sir; I can make no\u00a0hand of it; I can’t describe him. And it’s not want of memory; for I\u00a0declare I can see him this moment.”<\/p>\n
Mr. Utterson again walked some way in silence and obviously under a\u00a0weight of consideration.<\/p>\n
“You are sure he used a key?” he inquired at last.<\/p>\n
“My dear sir\u2026” began Enfield, surprised out of himself.<\/p>\n
“Yes, I know,” said Utterson; “I know it must seem strange. The\u00a0fact is, if I do not ask you the name of the other party, it is
\nbecause I know it already. You see, Richard, your tale has gone\u00a0home. If you have been inexact in any point, you had better correct\u00a0it.”<\/p>\n
“I think you might have warned me,” returned the other, with a\u00a0touch of sullenness. “But I have been pedantically exact, as you\u00a0call it. The fellow had a key; and what’s more, he has it still. I\u00a0saw him use it, not a week ago.”<\/p>\n
Mr. Utterson sighed deeply but said never a word; and the young man\u00a0presently resumed. “Here is another lesson to say nothing,” said he.\u00a0“I am ashamed of my long tongue. Let us make a bargain never to\u00a0refer to this again.”<\/p>\n
“With all my heart,” said the lawyer. “I shake hands on that,\u00a0Richard.”<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":251,"menu_order":1,"template":"","meta":{"pb_show_title":"on","pb_short_title":"","pb_subtitle":"","pb_authors":[],"pb_section_license":""},"chapter-type":[48],"contributor":[],"license":[],"class_list":["post-21","chapter","type-chapter","status-publish","hentry","chapter-type-numberless"],"part":3,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/jekyllandhyde\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapters\/21","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/jekyllandhyde\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapters"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/jekyllandhyde\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/chapter"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/jekyllandhyde\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/251"}],"version-history":[{"count":10,"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/jekyllandhyde\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapters\/21\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":131,"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/jekyllandhyde\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapters\/21\/revisions\/131"}],"part":[{"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/jekyllandhyde\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/parts\/3"}],"metadata":[{"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/jekyllandhyde\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapters\/21\/metadata\/"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/jekyllandhyde\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=21"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"chapter-type","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/jekyllandhyde\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapter-type?post=21"},{"taxonomy":"contributor","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/jekyllandhyde\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/contributor?post=21"},{"taxonomy":"license","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/jekyllandhyde\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/license?post=21"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}