It was not the first time that she had spoken to us of herhusband’s trouble, to me as a doctor, to my wife as an old friendand school companion. We soothed and comforted her by suchwords as we could find. Did she know where her husband was?
Was it possible that we could bring him back to her?
It seems that it was. She had the surest information that oflate he had, when the fit was on him, made use of an opium denin the farthest east of the City. Hitherto his orgies had alwaysbeen confined to one day, and he had come back, twitching andshattered, in the evening. But now the spell had been upon himeight-and-forty hours, and he lay there, doubtless among the dregsof the docks, breathing in the poison or sleeping off the effects.
There he was to be found, she was sure of it, at the Bar of Gold, inUpper Swandam Lane. But what was she to do? How could she, ayoung and timid woman, make her way into such a place and pluckher husband out from among the ruffians who surrounded him?
There was the case, and of course there was but one way outof it. Might I not escort her to this place? And then, as a secondthought, why should she come at all? I was Isa Whitney’s medicaladviser, and as such I had influence over him. I could manage itbetter if I were alone. I promised her on my word that I wouldsend him home in a cab within two hours if he were indeed atthe address which she had given me. And so in ten minutes I hadleft my armchair and cheery sitting-room behind me, and wasspeeding eastward in a hansom on a strange errand, as it seemedto me at the time, though the future only could show how strangeit was to be.
But there was no great difficulty in the first stage of myadventure. Upper Swandam Lane is a vile alley lurking behindthe high wharves which line the north side of the river to theeast of London Bridge. Between a slop-shop and a gin-shop,approached by a steep flight of steps leading down to a black gaplike the mouth of a cave, I found the den of which I was in search.
Ordering my cab to wait, I passed down the steps, worn hollow inthe centre by the ceaseless tread of drunken feet; and by the lightof a flickering oil-lamp above the door I found the latch and mademy way into a long, low room, thick and heavy with the brownopium smoke, and terraced with wooden berths, like the forecastleof an emigrant ship.
Through the gloom one could dimly catch a glimpse of bodieslying in strange fantastic poses, bowed shoulders, bent knees,heads thrown back, and chins pointing upward, with here andthere a dark, lack-lustre eye turned upon the newcomer. Outof the black shadows there glimmered little red circles of light,now bright, now faint, as the burning poison waxed or wanedin the bowls of the metal pipes. The most lay silent, but somemuttered to themselves, and others talked together in a strange,low, monotonous voice, their conversation coming in gushes, andthen suddenly tailing off into silence, each mumbling out his ownthoughts and paying little heed to the words of his neighbour. Atthe farther end was a small brazier of burning charcoal, besidewhich on a three-legged wooden stool there sat a tall, thin oldman, with his jaw resting upon his two fists, and his elbows uponhis knees, staring into the fire.
As I entered, a sallow Malay attendant had hurried up with apipe for me and a supply of the drug, beckoning me to an emptyberth.
“Thank you. I have not come to stay,” said I. “There is a friendof mine here, Mr. Isa Whitney, and I wish to speak with him.”
There was a movement and an exclamation from my right, andpeering through the gloom, I saw Whitney, pale, haggard, andunkempt, staring out at me.
“My God! It’s Watson,” said he. He was in a pitiable state ofreaction, with every nerve in a twitter. “I say, Watson, what o’clockis it?”
“Nearly eleven.”
“Of what day?”
“Of Friday, June 19th.”
“Good heavens! I thought it was Wednesday. It is Wednesday.
What d’you want to frighten a chap for?” He sank his face ontohis arms and began to sob in a high treble key.
“I tell you that it is Friday, man. Your wife has been waiting thistwo days for you. You should be ashamed of yourself!”
“So I am. But you’ve got mixed, Watson, for I have only beenhere a few hours, three pipes, four pipes—I forget how many. ButI’ll go home with you. I wouldn’t frighten Kate—poor little Kate.
Give me your hand! Have you a cab?”
“Yes, I have one waiting.”
“Then I shall go in it. But I must owe something. Find what Iowe, Watson. I am all off colour. I can do nothing for myself.”
I walked down the narrow passage between the double row ofsleepers, holding my breath to keep out the vile, stupefying fumesof the drug, and looking about for the manager. As I passed thetall man who sat by the brazier I felt a sudden pluck at my skirt,and a low voice whispered, “Walk past me, and then look back atme.” The words fell quite distinctly upon my ear. I glanced down.
They could only have come from the old man at my side, and yethe sat now as absorbed as ever, very thin, very wrinkled, bent withage, an opium pipe dangling down from between his knees, asthough it had dropped in sheer lassitude from his fingers. I tooktwo steps forward and looked back. It took all my self-control toprevent me from breaking out into a cry of astonishment. He hadturned his back so that none could see him but I. His form hadfilled out, his wrinkles were gone, the dull eyes had regained theirfire, and there, sitting by the fire and grinning at my surprise, wasnone other than Sherlock Holmes. He made a slight motion to meto approach him, and instantly, as he turned his face half round tothe company once more, subsided into a doddering, loose-lippedsenility.
“Holmes!” I whispered, “what on earth are you doing in thisden?”
“As low as you can,” he answered; “I have excellent ears. If youwould have the great kindness to get rid of that sottish friend ofyours I should be exceedingly glad to have a little talk with you.”
“I have a cab outside.”