come by the laboratory door; possibly, indeed, it had been written in the cab
inet; 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.'6 That was the
funeral oration of one friend and client; and he could not help a certain appre
hension 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 dis
tance from the fire, a bottle of a particular old wine that had long dwelt unsun
ned in the foundations of his house. The fog still slept on the wing above the
drowned city, where the lamps glimmered like carbuncles;7 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 dye8 had softened with time, as the colour grows richer
in stained windows; and the glow of hot autumn afternoons on hillside vine
yards, 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 doc
6. Member of Parliament. 8. Purple. 7. Precious fiery-red stones.
.
166 0 / ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
ument 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 doc
ument 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 pas
sion. '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
