style="font-size:15px;"> “Nearly eleven.”
“Of what day?”
“Of Friday, June 19th.”
“Good heavens! I thought it was Wednesday. It is Wednesday. What do you want to frighten me for?” He sank his face onto his arms and began to sob.
“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 must be wrong, Watson, because 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! Do you have a cab?”
“Yes, I have one waiting.”
“Then I should 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, trying not to breath in the disgusting, 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, and a low voice said, “Walk past me, and then look back at me.” I heard the words quite distinctly. 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, crooked, an opium pipe between his knees. It seemed that he had dropped it in absolute tiredness from his fingers. I took two steps forward and looked back. It took all my self-control not to cry with astonishment. He had turned his back so that nobody could see him but me. His form had filled out, his wrinkles were gone, the fire had lit up in his dull eyes, and there, sitting by the fire and smiling at my surprise, was none other than Sherlock Holmes. He gave me a sign to approach him, and immediately, as he turned his face half round to the company once more, changed back into a weak old man.
“Holmes!” I said in a low voice, “what on earth are you doing in this den?”
“As low as you can,” he answered; “I have excellent ears. If you would be so kind to get rid of your friend I’ll be very glad to have a little talk with you.”
“I have a cab outside.”
“Then please send him home in it. You may safely trust him, because he looks too weak to get in any trouble. I 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 wait outside, I will be with you in five minutes.”
It was difficult to refuse any of Sherlock Holmes’s requests, for they were always very definite, and put forward in such imperative manner. I felt, however, that when Whitney was put in the cab my mission was practically over; and for the rest, I could not wish anything better than to be together with my friend in one of those 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 figure of the old man had appeared 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, looking quickly round, he straightened himself out and burst into hearty laughter.
“I was certainly surprised to find you there,” I said.
“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 middle of a very remarkable inquiry, and I have hoped to find a clew in the mumbling of these dregs, as I have done before. If I were recognized in that den my life would not have been worth an hour’s purchase; for I have used it before for my own purposes, and the evil 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! Do you mean bodies?”
“Yes, bodies, Watson. We would be rich if we had 1000 pounds for every poor man who died in that den. It is the most dangerous murder-trap on the whole riverside, and I’m afraid that Neville St. Clair has entered it to never leave it. But our cart should be here.” He put his two fingers between his teeth and whistled a signal which was answered by a similar whistle from the distance, followed by the cart, that appeared out of the darkness.
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