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"
Now
,
my
good
man
,
"
said
the
lawyer
,
"
be
explicit
.
What
are
you
afraid
of
?
"
"
I
've
been
afraid
for
about
a
week
,
"
returned
Poole
,
doggedly
disregarding
the
question
,
"
and
I
can
bear
it
no
more
.
"
The
man
's
appearance
amply
bore
out
his
words
;
his
manner
was
altered
for
the
worse
;
and
except
for
the
moment
when
he
had
first
announced
his
terror
,
he
had
not
once
looked
the
lawyer
in
the
face
.
Even
now
,
he
sat
with
the
glass
of
wine
untasted
on
his
knee
,
and
his
eyes
directed
to
a
corner
of
the
floor
.
"
I
can
bear
it
no
more
,
"
he
repeated
.
"
Come
,
"
said
the
lawyer
,
"
I
see
you
have
some
good
reason
,
Poole
;
I
see
there
is
something
seriously
amiss
.
Try
to
tell
me
what
it
is
.
"
"
I
think
there
's
been
foul
play
,
"
said
Poole
,
hoarsely
.
"
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
dare
n'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
great-coat
;
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
a
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
all
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
cowing
,
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
.
