"I didn't know what to do, so I came straight to you." That wasalways the way. Folk who were in grief came to my wife like birdsto a light-house.
"It was very sweet of you to come. Now, you must have some wineand water, and sit here comfortably and tell us all about it. Orshould you rather that I sent James off to bed?"
"Oh, no, no! I want the doctor's advice and help, too. It's aboutIsa. He has not been home for two days. I am so frightened abouthim!"
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 such wordsas we could find. Did she know where her husband was? Was itpossible that we could bring him back to her?
It seems that it was. She had the surest information that of latehe had, when the fit was on him, made use of an opium den in thefarthest east of the City. Hitherto his orgies had always beenconfined 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 thedregs of the docks, breathing in the poison or sleeping off theeffects. There he was to be found, she was sure of it, at the Barof Gold, in Upper Swandam Lane. But what was she to do? How couldshe, a young and timid woman, make her way into such a place andpluck her husband out from among the ruffians who surrounded him?
There was the case, and of course there was but one way out ofit. 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 at theaddress which she had given me. And so in ten minutes I had leftmy armchair and cheery sitting-room behind me, and was speedingeastward in a hansom on a strange errand, as it seemed to me atthe time, though the future only could show how strange it was tobe.
But there was no great difficulty in the first stage of myadventure. Upper Swandam Lane is a vile alley lurking behind thehigh wharves which line the north side of the river to the eastof London Bridge. Between a slop-shop and a gin-shop, approachedby a steep flight of steps leading down to a black gap like themouth 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 thelight of a flickering oil-lamp above the door I found the latchand made my way into a long, low room, thick and heavy with thebrown opium smoke, and terraced with wooden berths, like theforecastle of an emigrant ship.
Through the gloom one could dimly catch a glimpse of bodies lyingin strange fantastic poses, bowed shoulders, bent knees, headsthrown back, and chins pointing upward, with here and there adark, lack-lustre eye turned upon the newcomer. Out of the blackshadows there glimmered little red circles of light, now bright,now faint, as the burning poison waxed or waned in the bowls ofthe metal pipes. The most lay silent, but some muttered tothemselves, and others talked together in a strange, low,monotonous voice, their conversation coming in gushes, and thensuddenly 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 a pipefor 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 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, whato'clock is it?"
"Nearly eleven."
"Of what day?"
"Of Friday, June 19th."
"Good heavens! I thought it was Wednesday. It is Wednesday. Whatd'you want to frighten a chap for?" He sank his face onto hisarms and began to sob in a high treble key.
"I tell you that it is Friday, man. Your wife has been waitingthis two days for you. You should be ashamed of yourself!"
"So I am. But you've got mixed, Watson, for I have only been herea few hours, three pipes, four pipes--I forget how many. But I'llgo 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, stupefyingfumes of the drug, and looking about for the manager. As I passedthe tall man who sat by the brazier I felt a sudden pluck at myskirt, and a low voice whispered, "Walk past me, and then lookback at me." The words fell quite distinctly upon my ear. Iglanced down. They could only have come from the old man at myside, and yet he sat now as absorbed as ever, very thin, verywrinkled, bent with age, an opium pipe dangling down from betweenhis knees, as though it had dropped in sheer lassitude from hisfingers. I took two steps forward and looked back. It took all myself-control to prevent me from breaking out into a cry ofastonishment. He had turned his back so that none could see himbut I. His form had filled out, his wrinkles were gone, the dulleyes had regained their fire, and there, sitting by the fire andgrinning at my surprise, was none other than Sherlock Holmes. Hemade a slight motion to me to approach him, and instantly, as heturned his face half round to the company once more, subsidedinto 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 youwould have the great kindness to get rid of that sottish friendof yours I should be exceedingly glad to have a little talk withyou."
"I have a cab outside."
"Then pray send him home in it. You may safely trust him, for heappears to be too limp to get into any mischief. I shouldrecommend you also to send a note by the cabman to your wife tosay that you have thrown in your lot with me. If you will waitoutside, I shall be
with you in five minutes."
It was difficult to refuse any of Sherlock Holmes' requests, forthey were always so exceedingly definite, and put forward withsuch a quiet air of mastery. I felt, however, that when Whitneywas once confined in the cab my mission was practicallyaccomplished; and for the rest, I could not wish anything betterthan to be associated with my friend in one of those singularadventures which were the normal condition of his existence. In afew minutes I had written my note, paid Whitney's bill, led himout to the cab, and seen him driven through the darkness. In avery short time a decrepit figure had emerged from the opium den,and I was walking down the street with Sherlock Holmes. For twostreets he shuffled along with a bent back and an uncertain foot.Then, glancing quickly round, he straightened himself out andburst into a hearty fit of laughter.
"I suppose, Watson," said he, "that you imagine that I have addedopium-smoking to cocaine injections, and all the other littleweaknesses on which you have favoured me with your medicalviews."
"I was certainly surprised to find you there."
"But not more so than I to find you."