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Las aventuras de Sherlock Holmes
The Man with the Twisted Lip
Capítulo 6, Página 2
"It
was
sweet
of
you
to
come.
Now,
have
some
wine
and
water,
sit
here
comfortably,
and
tell
us
everything.
Or
should
I
send
James
to
bed?"
"Oh,
no,
no!
I
need
the
doctor's
help
too.
It's
about
Isa.
He
hasn't
been
home
for
two
days.
I'm
so
worried!"
It
wasn’t
the
first
time
she
spoke
to
us
about
her
husband's
problem.
She
spoke
to
me
as
a
doctor
and
to
my
wife
as
an
old
friend.
We
comforted
her
with
kind
words.
Did
she
know
where
her
husband
was?
Could
we
bring
him
back
to
her?
It
seemed
possible.
She
had
reliable
information
that
he
had
recently
been
visiting
an
opium
den
in
the
far
east
of
the
City.
Before,
his
binges
lasted
a
day,
and
he
returned
home
twitching
and
exhausted
by
evening.
But
now,
he
had
been
gone
for
48
hours,
likely
lying
among
the
dock's
dregs,
breathing
in
the
poison
or
sleeping
it
off.
She
was
sure
he
was
at
the
Bar
of
Gold
in
Upper
Swandam
Lane.
But
what
could
she
do?
How
could
she,
a
young
and
timid
woman,
enter
such
a
place
and
pull
her
husband
out
from
the
rough
men
around
him?
That
was
the
situation,
and
there
was
only
one
solution.
Could
I
accompany
her
to
this
place?
Then,
on
second
thought,
why
should
she
come
at
all?
I
was
Isa
Whitney's
doctor
and
had
influence
over
him.
I
could
handle
it
better
alone.
I
promised
I
would
send
him
home
in
a
cab
within
two
hours
if
he
was
at
the
address
she
gave
me.
In
ten
minutes,
I
left
my
comfortable
armchair
and
cheerful
sitting
room,
heading
east
in
a
hansom
cab
on
a
strange
errand,
though
only
the
future
would
reveal
how
strange
it
truly
was.
The
first
part
of
my
task
was
not
hard.
Upper
Swandam
Lane
is
a
nasty
alley
hidden
behind
the
high
docks
on
the
north
side
of
the
river,
east
of
London
Bridge.
Between
a
second-hand
shop
and
a
gin
shop,
down
a
steep
flight
of
steps
leading
to
a
dark
gap
like
a
cave's
mouth,
I
found
the
den.
Ordering
my
cab
to
wait,
I
went
down
the
steps,
worn
by
the
constant
tread
of
drunk
feet,
and
by
the
flickering
light
of
an
oil
lamp
above
the
door,
I
found
the
latch
and
entered
a
long,
low
room
filled
with
thick
brown
opium
smoke,
lined
with
wooden
bunks
like
an
emigrant
ship's
forecastle.
In
the
dim
light,
I
saw
bodies
in
strange
poses,
with
bent
knees
and
heads
thrown
back,
some
eyes
dull
and
lifeless.
Little
red
circles
of
light
glowed
and
faded
as
the
burning
poison
waxed
and
waned
in
the
metal
pipes.
Most
people
lay
silent,
but
some
muttered
to
themselves,
and
others
spoke
in
low,
monotonous
voices,
their
conversations
starting
and
stopping
suddenly,
each
lost
in
their
own
thoughts.
At
the
far
end
was
a
small
charcoal
brazier,
beside
which
sat
a
tall,
thin
old
man
on
a
three-legged
stool,
his
jaw
resting
on
his
fists,
staring
into
the
fire.
As
I
entered,
a
sallow
Malay
attendant
hurried
over
with
a
pipe
and
some
of
the
drug,
gesturing
for
me
to
take
an
empty
bunk.
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Las aventuras de Sherlock Holmes — B1 Inglés | Cuentana