the drawer of the cheque lives there?"

"A likely place, isn't it?" returned Mr. Enfield. "But I happened 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. Yet it's not so sure; for the buildings are so packed
together about that 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. He was a
man of the name of Hyde."

"H'm," 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 downright 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 considera