Nearly a year later, in the month of October, 18—, 
London was startled by a crime of singular ferocity 
and rendered all the more notable by the high position 
of the victim. The details were few and startling. 
A maid servant living alone in a house not far from 
the river, had gone upstairs to bed about eleven. 
Although a fog rolled over the city in the small hours, 
the early part of the night was cloudless, and the lane, 
which the maid’s window overlooked, was brilliantly lit 
by the full moon. It seems she was romantically given, 
for she sat down upon her box, which stood immediately 
under the window, and fell into a dream of musing. Never 
(she used to say, with streaming tears, when she narrated 
that experience), never had she felt more at peace with 
all men or thought more kindly of the world. And as she 
so sat she became aware of an aged beautiful gentleman 
with white hair, drawing near along the lane; and 
advancing to meet him, another and very small gentleman, 
to whom at first she paid less attention. When they had 
come within speech (which was just under the maid’s eyes) 
the older man bowed and accosted the other with a very 
pretty manner of politeness. It did not seem as if the 
subject of his address were of great importance; indeed, 
from his pointing, it sometimes appeared as if he were 
only inquiring his way; but the moon shone on his face 
as he spoke, and the girl was pleased to watch it, it 
seemed to breathe such an innocent and old-world kindness 
of disposition, yet with something high too, as of a 
well-founded self-content. Presently her eye wandered 
to the other, and she was surprised to recognise in him 
a certain Mr. Hyde, who had once visited her master and for
whom she had conceived a dislike. He had in his hand a heavy 
cane, with which he was trifling; but he answered never a word, 
and seemed to listen with an ill-contained impatience. And 
then all of a sudden he broke out in a great flame of 
anger, stamping with his foot, brandishing the cane, 
and carrying on (as the maid described it) like a madman. 
The old gentleman took a step back, with the air of one very
 much surprised and a trifle hurt; and at that Mr. Hyde 
broke out of all bounds and clubbed him to the earth. 
And next moment, with ape-like fury, he was trampling 
his victim under foot and hailing down a storm of blows, 
under which the bones were audibly shattered and the 
body jumped upon the roadway. At the horror of these 
sights and sounds, the maid fainted. 

It was two o’clock when she came to herself and called 
for the police. The murderer was gone long ago; but there 
lay his victim in the middle of the lane, incredibly 
mangled. The stick with which the deed had been done, 
although it was of some rare and very tough and heavy wood, 
had broken in the middle under the stress of this insensate 
cruelty; and one splintered half had rolled in the 
neighbouring gutter—the other, without doubt, had been 
carried away by the murderer. A purse and gold watch were 
found upon the victim: but no cards or papers, except a sealed 
and stamped envelope, which he had been probably carrying 
to the post, and which bore the name and address of Mr. Utterson. 

This was brought to the lawyer the next morning, before he was 
out of bed; and he had no sooner seen it and been told the 
circumstances, than he shot out a solemn lip. “I shall say nothing 
till I have seen the body,” said he; “this may be very serious. Have 
the kindness to wait while I dress.” And with the same grave 
countenance he hurried through his breakfast and drove to the 
police station, whither the body had been carried. As soon as he 
came into the cell, he nodded. 

“Yes,” said he, “I recognise him. I am sorry to say that this is 
Sir Danvers Carew.” 

“Good God, sir,” exclaimed the officer, “is it possible?” And the 
next moment his eye lighted up with professional ambition. “This
will make a deal of noise,” he said. “And perhaps you can help us 
to the man.” And he briefly narrated what the maid had seen, and 
showed the broken stick. 

Mr. Utterson had already quailed at the name of Hyde; but when the 
stick was laid before him, he could doubt no longer; broken and 
battered as it was, he recognised it for one that he had himself 
presented many years before to Henry Jekyll. 

“Is this Mr. Hyde a person of small stature?” he inquired. 

“Particularly small and particularly wicked-looking, is what the 
maid calls him,” said the officer. 

Mr. Utterson reflected; and then, raising his head, “If you will come
 with me in my cab,” he said, “I think I can take you to his house.”
 
It was by this time about nine in the morning, and the first fog of 
the season. A great chocolate-coloured pall lowered over heaven, but 
the wind was continually charging and routing these embattled vapours; 
so that as the cab crawled from street to street, Mr. Utterson beheld 
a marvelous number of degrees and hues of twilight; for here it would 
be dark like the back-end of evening; and there would be a glow of a 
rich, lurid brown, like the light of some strange conflagration; and 
here, for a moment, the fog would be quite broken up, and a haggard 
shaft of daylight would glance in between the swirling wreaths. The 
dismal quarter of Soho seen under these changing glimpses, with its 
muddy ways, and slatternly passengers, and its lamps, which had never 
been extinguished or had been kindled afresh to combat this mournful 
reinvasion of darkness, seemed, in the lawyer’s eyes, like a district 
of some city in a nightmare. The thoughts of his mind, besides, were 
of the gloomiest dye; and when he glanced at the companion of his 
drive, he was conscious of some touch of that terror of the law and 
the law’s officers, which may at times assail the most honest. 

As the cab drew up before the address indicated, the fog lifted a 
little and showed him a dingy street, a gin palace, a low French 
eating house, a shop for the retail of penny numbers and twopenny 
salads, many ragged children huddled in the doorways, and many women 
of many different nationalities passing out, key in hand, to have a 
morning glass; and the next moment the fog settled down again upon 
that part, as brown as umber, and cut him off from his blackguardly 
surroundings. This was the home of Henry Jekyll’s favourite; of a man 
who was heir to a quarter of a million sterling. 

An ivory-faced and silvery-haired old woman opened the door. She had 
an evil face, smoothed by hypocrisy: but her manners were excellent. 
Yes, she said, this was Mr. Hyde’s, but he was not at home; he had 
been in that night very late, but he had gone away again in less than 
an hour; there was nothing strange in that; his habits were very 
irregular, and he was often absent; for instance, it was nearly two 
months since she had seen him till yesterday. 

“Very well, then, we wish to see his rooms,” said the lawyer; and when 
the woman began to declare it was impossible, “I had better tell you 
who this person is,” he added. “This is Inspector Newcomen of Scotland 
Yard.” 

A flash of odious joy appeared upon the woman’s face. “Ah!” said she, 
“he is in trouble! What has he done?” 

Mr. Utterson and the inspector exchanged glances. “He don’t seem a 
very popular character,” observed the latter. “And now, my good woman, 
just let me and this gentleman have a look about us.” 

In the whole extent of the house, which but for the old woman remained 
otherwise empty, Mr. Hyde had only used a couple of rooms; but these 
were furnished with luxury and good taste. A closet was filled with wine; 
the plate was of silver, the napery elegant; a good picture hung upon the 
walls, a gift (as Utterson supposed) from Henry Jekyll, who was much of a 
connoisseur; and the carpets were of many plies and agreeable in colour. 
At this moment, however, the rooms bore every mark of having been recently 
and hurriedly ransacked; clothes lay about the floor, with their pockets 
inside out; lock-fast drawers stood open; and on the hearth there lay a 
pile of grey ashes, as though many papers had been burned. From these 
embers the inspector disinterred the butt end of a green cheque book, 
which had resisted the action of the fire; the other half of the stick 
was found behind the door; and as this clinched his suspicions, the officer 
declared himself delighted. A visit to the bank, where several thousand 
pounds were found to be lying to the murderer’s credit, completed his 
gratification. 

“You may depend upon it, sir,” he told Mr. Utterson: “I have him in my 
hand. He must have lost his head, or he never would have left the stick or, 
above all, burned the cheque book. Why, money’s life to the man. We have 
nothing to do but wait for him at the bank, and get out the handbills.” 

This last, however, was not so easy of accomplishment; for Mr. Hyde had
numbered few familiars—even the master of the servant maid had only seen 
him twice; his family could nowhere be traced; he had never been photographed; 
and the few who could describe him differed widely, as common observers will. 
Only on one point were they agreed; and that was the haunting sense of unexpressed 
deformity with which the fugitive impressed his beholders. 
