We heard the door open, a few hurried words, and then quick steps
upon the linoleum. Our own door flew open, and a lady, clad in some
dark-coloured stuff, with a black veil, entered the room.
"You will excuse my calling so late," she began, and then, suddenly
losing her self-control, she ran forward, threw her arms about my
wife's neck, and sobbed upon her shoulder. "Oh, I'm in such trouble!"
she cried; "I do so want a little help."
"Why," said my wife, pulling up her veil, "it is Kate Whitney. How
you startled me, Kate! I had not an idea who you were when you came
in."
"I didn't know what to do, so I came straight to you." That was
always the way. Folk who were in grief came to my wife like birds to
a light-house.
"It was very sweet of you to come. Now, you must have some wine and
water, and sit here comfortably and tell us all about it. Or should
you rather that I sent James off to bed?"
"Oh, no, no! I want the doctor's advice and help, too. It's about
Isa. He has not been home for two days. I am so frightened about
him!"
It was not the first time that she had spoken to us of her husband's
trouble, to me as a doctor, to my wife as an old friend and school
companion. We soothed and comforted her by such words 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 of late he
had, when the fit was on him, made use of an opium den in the
farthest east of the City. Hitherto his orgies had always been
confined to one day, and he had come back, twitching and shattered,
in the evening. But now the spell had been upon him eight-and-forty
hours, and he lay there, doubtless among the dregs of 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, in Upper Swandam
Lane. But what was she to do? How could she, a young and timid woman,
make her way into such a place and pluck her husband out from among
the ruffians who surrounded him?
There was the case, and of course there was but one way out of it.
Might I not escort her to this place? And then, as a second thought,
why should she come at all? I was Isa Whitney's medical adviser, and
as such I had influence over him. I could manage it better if I were
alone. I promised her on my word that I would send him home in a cab
within two hours if he were indeed at the address which she had given
me. And so in ten minutes I had left my armchair and cheery
sitting-room behind me, and was speeding eastward in a hansom on a
strange errand, as it seemed to me at the time, though the future
only could show how strange it was to be.
But there was no great difficulty in the first stage of my adventure.
Upper Swandam Lane is a vile alley lurking behind the high wharves
which line the north side of the river to the east of London Bridge.
Between a slop-shop and a gin-shop, approached by a steep flight of
steps leading down to a black gap like 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 in the centre by the ceaseless tread of
drunken feet; and by the light of a flickering oil-lamp above the
door I found the latch and made my way into a long, low room, thick
and heavy with the brown opium smoke, and terraced with wooden
berths, like the forecastle of an emigrant ship.
Through the gloom one could dimly catch a glimpse of bodies lying in
strange fantastic poses, bowed shoulders, bent knees, heads thrown
back, and chins pointing upward, with here and there a dark,
lack-lustre eye turned upon the newcomer. Out of the black shadows
there glimmered little red circles of light, now bright, now faint,
as the burning poison waxed or waned in the bowls of the metal pipes.
The most lay silent, but some muttered to themselves, and others
talked together in a strange, low, monotonous voice, their
conversation coming in gushes, and then suddenly tailing off into
silence, each mumbling out his own thoughts and paying little heed to
the words of his neighbour. At the farther end was a small brazier of
burning charcoal, beside which on a three-legged wooden stool there
sat a tall, thin old man, with his jaw resting upon his two fists,
and his elbows upon his knees, staring into the fire.
As I entered, a sallow Malay attendant had hurried up with a pipe for
me and a supply of the drug, beckoning me to an empty berth.
"Thank you. I have not come to stay," said I. "There is a friend of
mine here, Mr. Isa Whitney, and I wish to speak with him."
There was a movement and an exclamation from my right, and peering
through the gloom, I saw Whitney, pale, haggard, and unkempt, staring
out at me.
"My God! It's Watson," said he. He was in a pitiable state of
reaction, with every nerve in a twitter. "I say, Watson, what o'clock
is 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 onto his arms
and began to sob in a high treble key.
"I tell you that it is Friday, man. Your wife has been waiting this
two days for you. You should be ashamed of yourself!"
"So I am. But you've got mixed, Watson, for I have only been here a
few hours, three pipes, four pipes--I forget how many. But I'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 I owe,
Watson. I am all off colour. I can do nothing for myself."
I walked down the narrow passage between the double row of sleepers,
holding my breath to keep out the vile, stupefying fumes of the drug,
and looking about for the manager. As I passed the tall 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 at me." The words fell
quite distinctly upon my ear. I glanced down. They could only have
come from the old man at my side, and yet he sat now as absorbed as
ever, very thin, very wrinkled, bent with age, an opium pipe dangling
down from between his knees, as though it had dropped in sheer
lassitude from his fingers. I took two steps forward and looked back.
It took all my self-control to prevent me from breaking out into a
cry of astonishment. He had turned his back so that none could see
him but I. His form had filled out, his wrinkles were gone, the dull
eyes had regained their fire, and there, sitting by the fire and
grinning at my surprise, was none other than Sherlock Holmes. He made
a slight motion to me to approach him, and instantly, as he turned
his face half round to the company once more, subsided into a
doddering, loose-lipped senility.
"Holmes!" I whispered, "what on earth are you doing in this den?"
"As low as you can," he answered; "I have excellent ears. If you
would have the great kindness to get rid of that sottish friend of
yours I should be exceedingly glad to have a little talk with you."
"I have a cab outside."
"Then pray send him home in it. You may safely trust him, for he
appears to be too limp to get into any mischief. I should recommend
you also to send a note by the cabman to your wife to say that you
have thrown in your lot with me. If you will wait outside, I shall be
with you in five minutes."
It was difficult to refuse any of Sherlock Holmes' requests,
for they were always so exceedingly definite, and put forward with
such a quiet air of mastery. I felt, however, that when Whitney was
once confined in the cab my mission was practically accomplished; and
for the rest, I could not wish anything better than to be associated
with my friend in one of those singular adventures which were the
normal condition of his existence. In a few minutes I had written my
note, paid Whitney's bill, led him out to the cab, and seen him
driven through the darkness. In a very short time a decrepit figure
had emerged from the opium den, and I was walking down the street
with Sherlock Holmes. For two streets he shuffled along with a bent
back and an uncertain foot. Then, glancing quickly round, he
straightened himself out and burst into a hearty fit of laughter.
"I suppose, Watson," said he, "that you imagine that I have added
opium-smoking to cocaine injections, and all the other little
weaknesses on which you have favoured me with your medical views."
"I was certainly surprised to find you there."
"But not more so than I to find you."
"I came to find a friend."
"And I to find an enemy."
"An enemy?"
"Yes; one of my natural enemies, or, shall I say, my natural prey.
Briefly, Watson, I am in the midst of a very remarkable inquiry, and
I have hoped to find a clue in the incoherent ramblings of these
sots, as I have done before now. Had I been recognised in that den my
life would not have been worth an hour's purchase; for I have used it
before now for my own purposes, and the rascally Lascar who runs it
has sworn to have vengeance upon me. There is a trap-door at the back
of that building, near the corner of Paul's Wharf, which could tell
some strange tales of what has passed through it upon the moonless
nights."
"What! You do not mean bodies?"
"Ay, bodies, Watson. We should be rich men if we had ?000 for every
poor devil who has been done to death in that den. It is the vilest
murder-trap on the whole riverside, and I fear that Neville St. Clair
has entered it never to leave it more. But our trap should be here."
He put his two forefingers between his teeth and whistled shrilly--a
signal which was answered by a similar whistle from the distance,
followed shortly by the rattle of wheels and the clink of horses'
hoofs.
"Now, Watson," said Holmes, as a tall dog-cart dashed up through the
gloom, throwing out two golden tunnels of yellow light from its side
lanterns. "You'll come with me, won't you?"
"If I can be of use."
"Oh, a trusty comrade is always of use; and a chronicler still more
so. My room at The Cedars is a double-bedded one."
"The Cedars?"
"Yes; that is Mr. St. Clair's house. I am staying there while I
conduct the inquiry."
"Where is it, then?"
"Near Lee, in Kent. We have a seven-mile drive before us."
"But I am all in the dark."
"Of course you are. You'll know all about it presently. Jump up here.
All right, John; we shall not need you. Here's half a crown. Look out
for me to-morrow, about eleven. Give her her head. So long, then!"
He flicked the horse with his whip, and we dashed away through the
endless succession of sombre and deserted streets, which widened
gradually, until we were flying across a broad balustraded bridge,
with the murky river flowing sluggishly beneath us. Beyond lay
another dull wilderness of bricks and mortar, its silence broken only
by the heavy, regular footfall of the policeman, or the songs and
shouts of some belated party of revellers. A dull wrack was drifting
slowly across the sky, and a star or two twinkled dimly here and
there through the rifts of the clouds. Holmes drove in silence, with
his head sunk upon his breast, and the air of a man who is lost in
thought, while I sat beside him, curious to learn what this new quest
might be which seemed to tax his powers so sorely, and yet afraid to
break in upon the current of his thoughts. We had driven several
miles, and were beginning to get to the fringe of the belt of
suburban villas, when he shook himself, shrugged his shoulders, and
lit up his pipe with the air of a man who has satisfied himself that
he is acting for the best.
"You have a grand gift of silence, Watson," said he. "It makes you
quite invaluable as a companion. 'Pon my word, it is a great thing
for me to have someone to talk to, for my own thoughts are not
over-pleasant. I was wondering what I should say to this dear little
woman to-night when she meets me at the door."
"You forget that I know nothing about it."
"I shall just have time to tell you the facts of the case before we
get to Lee. It seems absurdly simple, and yet, somehow I can get
nothing to go upon. There's plenty of thread, no doubt, but I can't
get the end of it into my hand. Now, I'll state the case clearly and
concisely to you, Watson, and maybe you can see a spark where all is
dark to me."
"Proceed, then."
"Some years ago--to be definite, in May, 1884--there came to Lee a
gentleman, Neville St. Clair by name, who appeared to have plenty of
