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“I see you feel as I do,” said Enfield. “Blackmail, I suppose; an honest man paying through the nose for some of the capers of his youth. Black Mail House is what I call the place with the door, in consequence.”
“And you don’t know if the drawer of the cheque lives there?” Utterson asked.
“A likely place, isn’t it?” returned Enfield. “No, sir, I had a delicacy. I make it a rule of mine: the more it looks like Queer Street, the less I ask.”
Pressed at last, Enfield said the man’s name was Hyde. He could not describe him well; there was something wrong with his appearance, something displeasing and detestable, a feeling of deformity although he could not specify the point. The fellow had a key and had used it not a week before.
Utterson sighed deeply and said never a word. They shook hands on a bargain never to refer to the matter again.
That evening, however, Utterson sat down to dinner without relish, and when the cloth was taken away, he retired to his business room and opened his safe. From the most private part of it he drew a document endorsed as Dr. Jekyll’s Will. It was holograph, for Utterson though he had taken charge of it had refused to lend the least assistance in the making of it. The will provided that in case of Dr. Henry Jekyll’s decease, all his possessions should pass into the hands of his “friend and benefactor Edward Hyde,” and in case of Jekyll’s “disappearance or unexplained absence for any period exceeding three calendar months,” the said Hyde should step into Jekyll’s shoes without further delay. This document had long been the lawyer’s eyesore. Now, with the name of Hyde become suddenly clothed upon with detestable attributes, the vague mists that had baffled his eye resolved at last into the definite presentment of a fiend.
“I thought it was madness,” he said, replacing the paper, “and now I begin to fear it is disgrace.”
He set out at once through the lamplit city to the house of his friend Dr. Lanyon in Cavendish Square, the citadel of medicine. Lanyon was a hearty, healthy, red-faced gentleman with hair prematurely white. He sprang up to welcome Utterson with both hands, though the geniality was somewhat theatrical; the friendship was genuine, founded on school and college and a thorough enjoyment of each other’s company.
When Utterson led the talk round to Jekyll, Lanyon admitted they had been friends but that more than ten years had passed since Jekyll became too fanciful for him. His unscientific balderdash had estranged them.
“Did you ever come across a protégé of his—one Hyde?” asked Utterson.
“Hyde?” repeated Lanyon. “No. Never heard of him. Since my time.”
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