Was that my master's voice? Poole asks it after they have listened at the red baize door. That is why he left the wine untasted on Utterson's knee and brought the lawyer out into a March wind. There is something wrong, he said by the fire. I think there has been foul play. He will not name it in the house. He only asks Utterson to come and see. The square is full of wind and dust. The servants stand by a high fire like a flock of sheep. The maid weeps. The cook thanks God it is Utterson. Very irregular, the lawyer says. Your master would not be pleased. They are all afraid, Poole says. Nobody argues.
In the garden Poole makes him listen. If the man inside asks you in, do not go. A voice answers from the cabinet. Tell him I cannot see anyone. Thank you, sir, Poole says, and there is almost triumph in it. Twenty years in the house, and he will not be deceived about a voice. Master was made away with eight days ago, when they heard him cry out upon the name of God. Who is in there instead, and why it stays, is a thing that cries to Heaven. All week the thing behind the door has sent papers down the stair, crying for a drug it cannot get. Expense is no consideration. For God's sake, find me some of the old. The man at Maw's threw the note back like dirt. The hand looks like the doctor's. What matters hand of write? Poole has seen him. A masked figure among the crates, a cry like a rat, a run for the stair. If that was my master, why the mask? Why so small? I know where his head comes to in the cabinet door.
Utterson tries a kinder story. A malady that tortures and deforms. A mask. A drug. Hope of recovery. It hangs well together, he says, and delivers us from wild alarms. That thing was not my master, Poole whispers. If you say that, Utterson answers, it becomes my duty to break in that door. They make a clean breast. The masked thing was Hyde's bigness, Hyde's light step, Hyde's way in by the laboratory key. Bradshaw and the boy take sticks to the back. In the theatre they wait ten minutes. The foot inside is too light for Jekyll. Once, Poole says, I heard it weeping, like a woman or a lost soul. Utterson calls the name. I demand to see you. For God's sake, have mercy, says the voice. That is not Jekyll. That is Hyde. Down with the door. Five blows, and the lock bursts.
The room is the quietest in London that night. A good fire. A kettle singing. Tea laid, sugar already in the cup. In the middle lies a man still twitching. They turn him. It is Edward Hyde, in clothes of the doctor's size, a crushed phial in his hand, the smell of kernels in the air. We have come too late, Utterson says, whether to save or punish. They search the theatre, the cobwebbed cellar, the door on the by-street. Nowhere is there any trace of Henry Jekyll, dead or alive. The key on the flags is broken and already rusted. A pious book lies open, noted in Jekyll's hand with blasphemies. The glass shows only their own pale faces. On the desk a will now names Gabriel John Utterson, and a note dated this same day. He was alive and here this day, Utterson cries. Then why flee, and how? He fears to read further. The note sends him first to Lanyon's narrative, then to the confession of an unworthy friend. He pockets the sealed packet. He will say nothing of it. It is ten. He trudges back to read the two papers in quiet, and to be back before midnight, when they will send for the police.
