Mr. Utterson the lawyer was a man of a rugged countenance that was

　　never lighted by a smile; cold, scanty and embarrassed in discourse;

　　backward in sentiment; lean, long, dusty, dreary and yet somehow

　　lovable. At friendly meetings, and when the wine was to his taste,

　　something eminently human beaconed from his eye; something indeed which

　　never found its way into his talk, but which spoke not only in these

　　silent symbols of the after-dinner face, but more often and loudly in

　　the acts of his life. He was austere with himself; drank gin when he

　　was alone, to mortify a taste for vintages; and though he enjoyed the

　　theatre, had not crossed the doors of one for twenty years. But he had

　　an approved tolerance for others; sometimes wondering, almost with

　　envy, at the high pressure of spirits involved in their misdeeds; and

　　in any extremity inclined to help rather than to reprove. “I incline to

　　Cain’s heresy,” he used to say quaintly: “I let my brother go to the

　　devil in his own way.” In this character, it was frequently his fortune

　　to be the last reputable acquaintance and the last good influence in

　　the lives of downgoing men. And to such as these, so long as they came

　　about his chambers, he never marked a shade of change in his demeanour.

　　No doubt the feat was easy to Mr. Utterson; for he was undemonstrative

　　at the best, and even his friendship seemed to be founded in a similar

　　catholicity of good-nature. It is the mark of a modest man to accept

　　his friendly circle ready-made from the hands of opportunity; and that

　　was the lawyer’s way. His friends were those of his own blood or those

　　whom he had known the longest; his affections, like ivy, were the

　　growth of time, they implied no aptness in the object. Hence, no doubt

　　the bond that united him to Mr. Richard Enfield, his distant kinsman,

　　the well-known man about town. It was a nut to crack for many, what

　　these two could see in each other, or what subject they could find in

　　common. It was reported by those who encountered them in their Sunday

　　walks, that they said nothing, looked singularly dull and would hail

　　with obvious relief the appearance of a friend. For all that, the two

　　men put the greatest store by these excursions, counted them the chief

　　jewel of each week, and not only set aside occasions of pleasure, but

　　even resisted the calls of business, that they might enjoy them

　　uninterrupted.

　　It chanced on one of these rambles that their way led them down a

　　by-street in a busy quarter of London. The street was small and what is

　　called quiet, but it drove a thriving trade on the weekdays. The

　　inhabitants were all doing well, it seemed and all emulously hoping to

　　do better still, and laying out the surplus of their grains in

　　coquetry; so that the shop fronts stood along that thoroughfare with an

　　air of invitation, like rows of smiling saleswomen. Even on Sunday,

　　when it veiled its more florid charms and lay comparatively empty of

　　passage, the street shone out in contrast to its dingy neighbourhood,

　　like a fire in a forest; and with its freshly painted shutters,

　　well-polished brasses, and general cleanliness and gaiety of note,

　　instantly caught and pleased the eye of the passenger.

　　Two doors from one corner, on the left hand going east the line was

　　broken by the entry of a court; and just at that point a certain

　　sinister block of building thrust forward its gable on the street. It

　　was two storeys high; showed no window, nothing but a door on the lower

　　storey and a blind forehead of discoloured wall on the upper; and bore

　　in every feature, the marks of prolonged and sordid negligence. The

　　door, which was equipped with neither bell nor knocker, was blistered

　　and distained. Tramps slouched into the recess and struck matches on

　　the panels; children kept shop upon the steps; the schoolboy had tried

　　his knife on the mouldings; and for close on a generation, no one had

　　appeared to drive away these random visitors or to repair their

　　ravages.

　　Mr. Enfield and the lawyer were on the other side of the by-street; but

　　when they came abreast of the entry, the former lifted up his cane and

　　pointed.

　　“Did you ever remark that door?” he asked; and when his companion had

　　replied in the affirmative, “It is connected in my mind,” added he,

　　“with a very odd story.”

　　“Indeed?” said Mr. Utterson, with a slight change of voice, “and what

　　was that?”

　　“Well, it was this way,” returned Mr. Enfield: “I was coming home from

　　some place at the end of the world, about three o’clock of a black

　　winter morning, and my way lay through a part of town where there was

　　literally nothing to be seen but lamps. Street after street and all the

　　folks asleep—street after street, all lighted up as if for a procession

　　and all as empty as a church—till at last I got into that state of mind

　　when a man listens and listens and begins to long for the sight of a

　　policeman. All at once, I saw two figures: one a little man who was

　　stumping along eastward at a good walk, and the other a girl of maybe

　　eight or ten who was running as hard as she was able down a cross

　　street. Well, sir, the two ran into one another naturally enough at the

　　corner; and then came the horrible part of the thing; for the man

　　trampled calmly over the child’s body and left her screaming on the

　　ground. It sounds nothing to hear, but it was hellish to see. It wasn’t

　　like a man; it was like some damned Juggernaut. I gave a few halloa,

　　took to my heels, collared my gentleman, and brought him back to where

　　there was already quite a group about the screaming child. He was

　　perfectly cool and made no resistance, but gave me one look, so ugly

　　that it brought out the sweat on me like running. The people who had

　　turned out were the girl’s own family; and pretty soon, the doctor, for

　　whom she had been sent put in his appearance. Well, the child was not

　　much the worse, more frightened, according to the sawbones; and there

　　you might have supposed would be an end to it. But there was one

　　curious circumstance. I had taken a loathing to my gentleman at first

　　sight. So had the child’s family, which was only natural. But the

　　doctor’s case was what struck me. He was the usual cut and dry

　　apothecary, of no particular age and colour, with a strong Edinburgh

　　accent and about as emotional as a bagpipe. Well, sir, he was like the

　　rest of us; every time he looked at my prisoner, I saw that sawbones

　　turn sick and white with the desire to kill him. I knew what was in his

　　mind, just as he knew what was in mine; and killing being out of the

　　question, we did the next best. We told the man we could and would make

　　such a scandal out of this as should make his name stink from one end

　　of London to the other. If he had any friends or any credit, we

　　undertook that he should lose them. And all the time, as we were

　　pitching it in red hot, we were keeping the women off him as best we

　　could for they were as wild as harpies. I never saw a circle of such

　　hateful faces; and there was the man in the middle, with a kind of

　　black sneering coolness—frightened too, I could see that—but carrying

　　it off, sir, really like Satan. ‘If you choose to make capital out of

　　this accident,’ said he, ‘I am naturally helpless. No gentleman but

　　wishes to avoid a scene,’ says he. ‘Name your figure.’ Well, we screwed

　　him up to a hundred pounds for the child’s family; he would have

　　clearly liked to stick out; but there was something about the lot of us

　　that meant mischief, and at last he struck. The next thing was to get

　　the money; and where do you think he carried us but to that place with

　　the door?—whipped out a key, went in, and presently came back with the

　　matter of ten pounds in gold and a cheque for the balance on Coutts’s,

　　drawn payable to bearer and signed with a name that I can’t mention,

　　though it’s one of the points of my story, but it was a name at least

　　very well known and often printed. The figure was stiff; but the

　　signature was good for more than that if it was only genuine. I took

　　the liberty of pointing out to my gentleman that the whole business

　　looked apocryphal, and that a man does not, in real life, walk into a

　　cellar door at four in the morning and come out with another man’s

　　cheque for close upon a hundred pounds. But he was quite easy and

　　sneering. ‘Set your mind at rest,’ says he, ‘I will stay with you till

　　the banks open and cash the cheque myself.’ So we all set off, the

　　doctor, and the child’s father, and our friend and myself, and passed

　　the rest of the night in my chambers; and next day, when we had

　　breakfasted, went in a body to the bank. I gave in the cheque myself,

　　and said I had every reason to believe it was a forgery. Not a bit of

　　it. The cheque was genuine.”

　　“Tut-tut!” said Mr. Utterson.

　　“I see you feel as I do,” said Mr. Enfield. “Yes, it’s a bad story. For

　　my man was a fellow that nobody could have to do with, a really

　　damnable man; and the person that drew the cheque is the very pink of

　　the proprieties, celebrated too, and

what makes it worse

one of your

　　fellows who do what they call good. 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. Though

　　even that, you know, is far from explaining all,” he added, and with

　　the words fell into a vein of musing.

　　From this he was recalled by Mr. Utterson asking rather suddenly: “And

　　you don’t know if the drawer of the cheque lives there?”

　　“A likely place, isn’t it?” returned Mr. Enfield. “But I happen to have

　　noticed his address; he lives in some square or other.”

　　“And you never asked about the—place with the door?” said Mr. Utterson.

　　“No, sir; I had a delicacy,” was the reply. “I feel very strongly about

　　putting questions; it partakes too much of the style of the day of

　　judgment. You start a question, and it’s like starting a stone. You sit

　　quietly on the top of a hill; and away the stone goes, starting others;

　　and presently some bland old bird

the last you would have thought of

　　is knocked on the head in his own back garden and the family have to

　　change their name. No sir, I make it a rule of mine: the more it looks

　　like Queer Street, the less I ask.”

　　“A very good rule, too,” said the lawyer.

　　“But I have studied the place for myself,” continued Mr. Enfield. “It

　　seems scarcely a house. There is no other door, and nobody goes in or

　　out of that one but, once in a great while, the gentleman of my

　　adventure. There are three windows looking on the court on the first

　　floor; none below; the windows are always shut but they’re clean. And

　　then there is a chimney which is generally smoking; so somebody must

　　live there. And yet it’s not so sure; for the buildings are so packed

　　together about the court, that it’s hard to say where one ends and

　　another begins.”

　　The pair walked on again for a while in silence; and then “Enfield,”

　　said Mr. Utterson, “that’s a good rule of yours.”

　　“Yes, I think it is,” returned Enfield.

　　“But for all that,” continued the lawyer, “there’s one point I want to

　　ask. I want to ask the name of that man who walked over the child.”

　　“Well,” said Mr. Enfield, “I can’t see what harm it would do. It was a

　　man of the name of Hyde.”

　　“Hm,” said Mr. Utterson. “What sort of a man is he to see?”

　　“He is not easy to describe. There is something wrong with his

　　appearance; something displeasing, something down-right detestable. I

　　never saw a man I so disliked, and yet I scarce know why. He must be

　　deformed somewhere; he gives a strong feeling of deformity, although I

　　couldn’t specify the point. He’s an extraordinary looking man, and yet

　　I really can name nothing out of the way. No, sir; I can make no hand

　　of it; I can’t describe him. And it’s not want of memory; for I declare

　　I can see him this moment.”

　　Mr. Utterson again walked some way in silence and obviously under a

　　weight of consideration. “You are sure he used a key?” he inquired at

　　last.

　　“My dear sir...” began Enfield, surprised out of himself.

　　“Yes, I know,” said Utterson; “I know it must seem strange. The fact

　　is, if I do not ask you the name of the other party, it is because I

　　know it already. You see, Richard, your tale has gone home. If you have

　　been inexact in any point you had better correct it.”

　　“I think you might have warned me,” returned the other with a touch of

　　sullenness. “But I have been pedantically exact, as you call it. The

　　fellow had a key; and what’s more, he has it still. I saw him use it

　　not a week ago.”

　　Mr. Utterson sighed deeply but said never a word; and the young man

　　presently resumed. “Here is another lesson to say nothing,” said he. “I

　　am ashamed of my long tongue. Let us make a bargain never to refer to

　　this again.”

　　“With all my heart,” said the lawyer. “I shake hands on that, Richard.”