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Utterson went homeward with a heavy heart and tossed to and fro through the small hours. The figure of Hyde, in two phases, haunted the lawyer all night: a man walking swiftly through lamplighted streets, or gliding into sleeping houses at the dead hour to haunt a friend’s bedside. Always the figure had no face, or one that baffled him and melted before his eyes. So there sprang up in the lawyer’s mind an inordinate curiosity to behold the real Mr. Hyde.
From that time forward, Utterson haunted the door in the by-street. By morning, noon, and night, in fog and moonlight, he kept watch. His patience was at last rewarded one fine dry night of frost. He became aware of an odd light footstep drawing near, and as the figure approached he stepped out from the entry of the court.
“Mr. Hyde, I think?”
The man shrank back with a hissing intake of breath, but his fear was only momentary. He was small and plainly dressed, and there was something troglodytic, something deformed without any nameable malformation, about him. He gave a displeasing smile, bore himself with a murderous mixture of timidity and boldness, and spoke with a husky, broken voice.
“You will not find Dr. Jekyll; he is from home,” said Hyde, blowing in the key. Then, still without looking up: “How did you know me?”
Utterson asked to see his face. Hyde hesitated, then faced about with an air of defiance. They stared at each other fixedly for a few seconds. Hyde gave his address in Soho, and the lawyer, keeping his feelings to himself, took his leave with the unsettling thought: Can he, too, have been thinking of the will?
Round the corner from the by-street Utterson knocked at a square of decayed handsome houses, where Dr. Jekyll’s butler Poole admitted him into a large, low-roofed hall, warmed by an open fire and furnished with costly oak cabinets. The firelight flickered unpleasantly upon the polished wood, and Utterson, who usually felt at home in this pleasantest room in London, suffered instead a rare nausea and distaste of life, the face of Hyde sitting heavy on his memory.
“Is Dr. Jekyll at home, Poole?”
No, sir. Dr. Jekyll was gone out.
“I saw Mr. Hyde go in by the old dissecting room, Poole. Is that right, when Dr. Jekyll is from home?”
“Quite right, Mr. Utterson, sir. Mr. Hyde has a key.”
“Your master seems to repose a great deal of trust in that young man, Poole.”
“Yes, sir, he does indeed. We have all orders to obey him.”
“He never dines here,” Poole added. “He mostly comes and goes by the laboratory.”
Utterson went homeward with a heavy heart, thinking: Poor Harry Jekyll, my mind misgives me he is in deep waters!
A fortnight later, after one of Dr. Jekyll’s pleasant dinners, Utterson contrived to remain behind. The doctor, a large well-made smooth-faced man of fifty, sat opposite him by the fire with an evident affection for his dry old friend.
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