Datasets:
elapt1c
/
ElapticAI-512

Dataset card Data Studio Files
xet
 Community
1
Search is not available for this dataset
text
stringlengths
0
149M
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