I was greeted at the door by the stonefaced butler who addressed me by name and escorted me with no delay to the dining room, where, despite the hour, Doctor Lanyon sat alone over his wine.

As always, Lanyon was well-dressed and red-faced. It was a young face betrayed only by his thick white hair. On raising his gaze and seeing the identity of his late visitor, he sprang from his chair with a smile and a word of greeting and grabbed my hand in both of his, his welcome warm and almost theatrical in its effusiveness. Yet, there was no artifice in its meaning, for beyond Doctor Jekyll, I count Doctor Lanyon as my closest friend, and am glad to say that he would count me the same. We had been together through school and college and now, with many years passed, were respectful of each other's abilities as colleagues, as well as finding plenty to still enjoy in each other's company.

We moved to sit by the fire and I accepted a glass of the wine which Doctor Lanyon had been enjoying. As was our wont when we met, we talked for some time about affairs of no consequence. For a time, I found myself relaxing into old ways and almost forgot my reason for calling on him, so comfortable and comforting was the atmosphere, but a chance remark from Doctor Lanyon about our mutual friend brought me back to it with an almost physical start.