I am sure that I am often wondered about by some of my contemporaries. I am a man of little passion, they might say, and given to few emotional ties. Yes, to all, I am a bulwark, a sand-bar in the rising tide, a final refuge for those who seek sanctuary, and those same people who have held this against me, are also the first to call on me when times become troublesome. It is true that I am more willing than most to continue to deal with those whom life has treated roughly, and that I am as happy with those who are descending from the heights of society as those climbing towards them. But this is not a sign of any moral weakness on my part. Instead, I see it as a virtue. I am not my brother's keeper and will treat with any man who will treat with me, as long as they do so honestly and as openly as they can. The one thing I cannot abide is falseness. So it was that I was distressed when my old friend Henry Jekyll paid me a visit, talking in riddles and rhymes that seemed designed to keep the truth from me. And yet, how could I not meet and talk with so old a friend?