And so, I headed home and to bed where sleep eluded me all night. I mulled over what I had learned in the day about Hyde, Jekyll and Lanyon, trying to see the picture that was made up from the few pieces that I had. My bed was too large that night, and the dark ceiling was a broad canvas on which all my thoughts and speculations played themselves out, toiling in the darkness as the lateness of night turned into morning. Mister Enfield's tale went by before my mind in a scroll of lighted pictures. I would be aware of the great field of lamps of a nocturnal city; then of the figure of a man walking swiftly; then of a child running from the doctor's; and then these met, and that human Juggernaut trod the child down and passed on regardless of her screams. Or else I would see a room in a rich house, where my friend lay asleep, dreaming and smiling at his dreams; and then the door of that room would be opened, the curtains of the bed plucked apart, the sleeper recalled, and lo! there would stand by his side a figure to whom power was given, and even at that dead hour, he must rise and do its bidding. The figure in these two phases haunted me all night, and if at any time I dozed over, it was but to see it glide more stealthily through sleeping houses, or move the more swiftly and still the more swiftly, through wider labyrinths of lamplighted city, and at every street-corner crush a child and leave her screaming. And still the figure had no face by which I might know it, even in my dreams, it had no face, or one that confused my mind and melted before me, running like so much tallow.

I can only suppose that this intangibility was the source of my deep desire to see this man, Mister Hyde, with my own eyes, and at least people my dreams with a real face rather than the phantom who was haunting them. Like the light of day dispelling a nightmare, the real face of this man would surely illuminate all my thoughts and fears and I might see a reason for my friend's strange preference or bondage (call it which you please) and even for the startling clause of the will. At least it would be a face worth seeing: the face of a man who was without bowels of mercy: a face which had but to show itself to raise up, in the mind of the unimpressionable Enfield, a spirit of enduring hatred.