ys ago, when we
heard him cry out upon the name of God; and _who's_ in there instead of
him, and _why_ it stays there, is a thing that cries to Heaven, Mr.
Utterson!"

"This is a very strange tale, Poole; this is rather a wild tale, my
man," said Mr. Utterson, biting his finger. "Suppose it were as you
suppose, supposing Dr. Jekyll to have been--well, murdered, what could
induce the murderer to stay? That won't hold water; it doesn't commend
itself to reason."

"Well, Mr. Utterson, you are a hard man to satisfy, but I'll do it yet,"
said Poole. "All this last week (you must know) him, or it, or whatever
it is that lives in that cabinet, has been crying night and day for some
sort of medicine and cannot get it to his mind. It was sometimes his
way--the master's, that is--to write his orders on a sheet of paper and
throw it on the stair. We've had nothing else this week back; nothing
but papers, and a closed door, and the very meals left there to be
smuggled in when nobody was looking. Well, sir, every day, ay, and
twice and thrice in the same day, there have been orders and complaints,
and I have been sent flying to all the wholesale chemists in town. Every
time I brought the stuff back, there would be another paper telling me
to return it, because it was not pure, and another order to a different
firm. This drug is wanted bitter bad, sir, whatever for."

"Have you any of these papers?" asked Mr. Utterson.

Poole felt in his pocket and handed out a crumpled note, which the
lawyer, bending nearer to the candle, carefully examined. Its contents
ran thus: "Dr. Jekyll presents his compliments to Messrs. Maw. He
assures them that their last sample is impure, and quite useless for his
present purpose. In the year 18--, Dr. J. purchased a somewhat large
quantity from Messrs. M. He now begs them to search with the most
sedulous care, and should any of the same quality be left, to forward it
to him at once. Expense is no consideration. The importance of this to
Dr. J. can hardly be exaggerated." So far the letter had run composedly
enough, but here, with a sudden splutter of the pen, the writer's
emotion had broken loose. "For God's sake," he had added, "find me some
of the old."

"This is a strange note," said Mr. Utterson; and then sharply, "How do
you come to have it open?"

"The man at Maw's was main angry, sir, and he threw it back to me like
so much dirt," returned Poole.

"This is unquestionably the doctor's hand,