original character, one part remained to me: I could write my own
hand; and once I had conceived that kindling spark, the way that I must
follow became lighted up from end to end.

Thereupon I arranged my clothes as best I could, and summoning a passing
hansom, drove to a hotel in Portland Street, the name of which I chanced
to remember. At my appearance (which was indeed comical enough, however
tragic a fate these garments covered) the driver could not conceal his
mirth. I gnashed my teeth upon him with a gust of devilish fury; and the
smile withered from his face--happily for him--yet more happily for
myself, for in another instant I had certainly dragged him from his
perch. At the inn, as I entered, I looked about me with so black a
countenance as made the attendants tremble; not a look did they exchange
in my presence; but obsequiously took my orders, led me to a private
room, and brought me wherewithal to write. Hyde in danger of his life
was a creature new to me: shaken with inordinate anger, strung to the
pitch of murder, lusting to inflict pain. Yet the creature was astute;
mastered his fury with a great effort of the will; composed his two
important letters, one to Lanyon and one to Poole; and that he might
receive actual evidence of their being posted, sent them out with
directions that they should be registered.

Thenceforward, he sat all day over the fire in the private room, gnawing
his nails; there he dined, sitting alone with his fears, the waiter
visibly quailing before his eye; and then, when the night was fully
come, he set forth in the corner of a closed cab, and was driven to and
fro about the streets of the city. He, I say--I cannot say, I. That
child of Hell had nothing human; nothing lived in him but fear and
hatred. And when at last, thinking the driver had begun to grow
suspicious, he discharged the cab and ventured on foot, attired in his
misfitting clothes, an object marked out for observation, into the midst
of the nocturnal passengers, these two base passions raged within him
like a tempest. He walked fast, hunted by his fears, chattering to
himself, skulking through the less frequented thoroughfares, counting
the minutes that still divided him from midnight. Once a woman spoke to
him, offering, I think, a box of lights. He smote her in the face, and
she fled.

When I came to myself at Lanyon's, the horror of my old friend perhaps
affected me somewhat: I do not know; it was at least but a