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wrote "S. H. for J. 0." Then he sealed it and addressed it to

"Captain James Calhoun, Bark Lone Star, Savannah, Georgia."

"That will await him when he enters port," said he, chuck-

ling. "It may give him a sleepless night. He will find it as sure a

precursor of his fate as Openshaw did before him."

"And who is this Captain Calhoun?"

"The leader of the gang. I shall have the others, but he first."

"How did you trace it, then?"

He took a large sheet of paper from his pocket, all covered

with dates and names.

"I have spent the whole day," said he, "over Lloyd's regis-

ters and files of the old papers, following the future career of

every vessel which touched at Pondicherry in January and Febru-

ary in '83. There were thirty-six ships of fair tonnage which

were reported there during those months. Of these, one, the Lone

Star, instantly attracted my attention, since, although it was

reported as having cleared from London, the name is that which

is given to one of the states of the Union."

"Texas, I think."

"I was not and am not sure which; but I knew that the ship

must have an American origin."

"What then?"

"I searched the Dundee records, and when I found that the

bark Lone Star was there in January, '85, my suspicion became a

certainty. I then inquired as to the vessels which lay at present in

the port of London."

"Yes?"

"The Lone Star had arrived here last week. I went down to

the Albert Dock and found that she had been taken down the

river by the early tide this morning, homeward bound to Savan-

nah. I wired to Gravesend and learned that she had passed some

time ago, and as the wind is easterly I have no doubt that she is

now past the Goodwins and not very far from the Isle of Wight."

"What will you do, then?"

"Oh, I have my hand upon him. He and the two mates, are

as I learn, the only native-born Americans in the ship. The others

are Finns and Germans. I know, also, that they were all three

away from the ship last night. I had it from the stevedore who

has been loading their cargo. By the time that their sailing-ship

reaches Savannah the mail-boat will have carried this letter, and

the cable will have informed the police of Savannah that these

three gentlemen are badly wanted here upon a charge of murder."

There is ever a flaw, however, in the best laid of human plans,

and the murderers of John Openshaw were never to receive the

orange pips which would show them that another, as cunning

and as resolute as themselves, was upon their track. Very long

and very severe were the equinoctial gales that year. We waited

long for news of the Lone Star of Savannah, but none ever

reached us. We did at last hear that somewhere far out in the

Atlantic a shattered stern-post of the boat was seen swinging in

the trough of a wave, with the letters "L. S." carved upon it,

and that is all which we shall ever know of the fate of the Lone

Star.

The Man with the Twisted Lip

Isa Whitney, brother of the late Elias Whitney, D.D., Principal

of the Theological College of St. George's, was much addicted

to opium. The habit grew upon him, as I understand, from some

foolish freak when he was at college; for having read De Quincey's

description of his dreams and sensations, he had drenched his

tobacco with laudanum in an attempt to produce the same ef-

fects. He found, as so many more have done, that the practice is

easier to attain than to get rid of, and for many years he

continued to be a slave to the drug, an object of mingled horror

and pity to his friends and relatives. I can see him now, with

yellow, pasty face, drooping lids, and pin-point pupils, all hud-

dled in a chair, the wreck and ruin of a noble man.

One night -- it was in June, '89 -- there came a ring to my bell,

about the hour when a man gives his first yawn and glances at

the clock. I sat up in my chair, and my wife laid her needle-work

down in her lap and made a little face of disappointment.

"A patient!" said she. "You'll have to go out."

I groaned, for I was newly come back from a weary day.

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 Whit-

ney. 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 l 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 fright-

ened 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 Wednes-

day. What d'you want to frighten the 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's 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 practi-

cally 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 Whit-

ney'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

recognized 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