The Last Night

           Mr.Uttersonwassittingbyhisfiresideoneeveningafterdinner,whenhewassurprisedtoreceiveavisitfromPoole. 

           “Blessme,Poole,whatbringsyouhere?”hecried;andthentakingasecondlookathim, “Whatailsyou?”headded;“isthedoctorill?” 

           “Mr.Utterson,”saidtheman,“thereissomethingwrong.” 

           “Takeaseat,andhereisaglassofwineforyou,”saidthelawyer. “Now,takeyourtime,andtellmeplainlywhatyouwant.” 

           “Youknowthedoctor’sways,sir,”repliedPoole,“andhowheshutshimselfup. Well,he’sshutupagaininthecabinet;andIdon’tlikeit,sir—IwishImaydieifIlikeit. Mr.Utterson,sir,I’mafraid.” 

           “Now,mygoodman,”saidthelawyer,“beexplicit. Whatareyouafraidof?” 

           “I’vebeenafraidforaboutaweek,”returnedPoole,doggedlydisregardingthequestion,“andIcanbearitnomore.” 

           Theman’sappearanceamplyboreouthiswords;hismannerwasalteredfortheworse;andexceptforthemomentwhenhehadfirstannouncedhisterror,hehadnotoncelookedthelawyerintheface. Evennow,hesatwiththeglassofwineuntastedonhisknee,andhiseyesdirectedtoacornerofthefloor. “Icanbearitnomore,”herepeated. 

           “Come,”saidthelawyer, “Iseeyouhavesomegoodreason,Poole;Iseethereissomethingseriouslyamiss. Trytotellmewhatitis.”