Chapter 8

The Last Night

Mr. Utterson was sitting by his fireside one evening after dinner,
when he was surprised to receive a visit from Poole.

"Bless me, Poole, what brings you here?" he cried; and then
taking a second look at him, "What ails you?" he added; is the
doctor ill?"

"Mr. Utterson," said the man, "there is something wrong."

"Take a seat, and here is a glass of wine for you," said the
lawyer. "Now, take your time, and tell me plainly what you want."

"You know the doctor's ways, sir," replied Poole, "and how he
shuts himself up. Well, he's shut up again in the cabinet; and I
don't like it, sir--I wish I may die if I like it. Mr.
Utterson, sir, I'm afraid."

"Now, my good man," said the lawyer, "be explicit. What are
you afraid of?"

"I've been afraid for about a week," returned Poole, doggedly
disregarding the question, "and I can bear it no more."

The man's appearance amply bore out his words; his manner was
altered for the worse; and except for the moment when he had first
announced his terror, he had not once looked the lawyer in the
face. Even now, he sat with the glass of wine untasted on his
knee, and his eyes directed to a corner of the floor. "I can bear
it no more,"he repeated.

"Come," said the lawyer, "I see you have some good reason,
Poole; I see there is something seriously amiss. Try to tell me
what it is."

"I think there's been foul play," said Poole, hoarsely.

"Foul play!" cried the lawyer, a good deal frightened and
rather inclined to be irritated in consequence. "What foul play!
What does the man mean?"

"I daren't say, sir," was the answer; but will you come along
with me and see for yourself?"

Mr. Utterson's only answer was to rise and get his hat and
greatcoat; but he observed with wonder the greatness of the relief
that appeared upon the butler's face, and perhaps with no less,
that the wine was still untasted when he set it down to follow.

It was a wild, cold, seasonable night of March, with a pale
moon, lying on her back as though the wind had tilted her, and
flying wrack of the most diaphanous and lawny texture. The wind
made talking difficult, and flecked the blood into the face. It
seemed to have swept the streets unusually bare of passengers,
besides; for Mr. Utterson thought he had never seen that part of
London so deserted. He could have wished it otherwise; never in
his life had he been conscious of so sharp a wish to see and touch
his fellow-creatures; for struggle as he might, there was borne in
upon his mind a crushing anticipation of calamity. The square,
when they got there, was full of wind and dust, and the thin trees
in the garden were lashing themselves along the