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 railing. Poole,
who had kept all the way a pace or two ahead, now pulled up in the
middle of the pavement, and in spite of the biting weather, took off
his hat and mopped his brow with a red pocket-handkerchief. But for all
the hurry of his coming, these were not the dews of exertion that he
wiped away, but the moisture of some strangling anguish; for his face
was white and his voice, when he spoke, harsh and broken.
Well, sir, he said, here we are, and God grant there be nothing
wrong.
Amen, Poole, said the lawyer.
Thereupon the servant knocked in a very guarded manner; the door was
opened on the chain; and a voice asked from within, Is that you,
Poole?
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