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Las aventuras de Sherlock Holmes
The Man with the Twisted Lip
Capítulo 6, Página 2
“It
was
very
kind
of
you
to
come.
Now,
you
must
have
some
wine
and
water,
sit
here
comfortably,
and
tell
us
everything.
Or
would
you
prefer
that
I
send
James
off
to
bed?”
“Oh,
no,
no!
I
need
the
doctor’s
advice
and
help
too.
It’s
about
Isa.
He
hasn’t
been
home
for
two
days.
I’m
so
worried
about
him!”
This
wasn’t
the
first
time
she
had
spoken
to
us
about
her
husband’s
problem,
to
me
as
a
doctor,
and
to
my
wife
as
an
old
friend
and
schoolmate.
We
comforted
her
with
whatever
words
we
could
find.
Did
she
know
where
her
husband
was?
Could
we
bring
him
back
to
her?
It
seemed
possible.
She
had
reliable
information
that
recently,
when
the
urge
struck
him,
he
had
been
visiting
an
opium
den
in
the
far
east
of
the
City.
Until
now,
his
indulgences
had
been
limited
to
a
single
day,
and
he
would
return
in
the
evening,
twitching
and
shattered.
But
now
he
had
been
gone
for
forty-eight
hours,
likely
lying
among
the
dregs
of
the
docks,
inhaling
the
poison
or
sleeping
off
its
effects.
She
was
sure
he
could
be
found
at
the
Bar
of
Gold,
in
Upper
Swandam
Lane.
But
what
could
she
do?
How
could
she,
a
young
and
timid
woman,
venture
into
such
a
place
and
pull
her
husband
out
from
the
ruffians
surrounding
him?
That
was
the
situation,
and
there
was
only
one
solution.
Should
I
escort
her
there?
Then,
on
second
thought,
why
should
she
come
at
all?
I
was
Isa
Whitney’s
doctor,
and
as
such,
I
had
influence
over
him.
I
could
handle
it
better
alone.
I
promised
her
that
I
would
send
him
home
in
a
cab
within
two
hours
if
he
was
indeed
at
the
address
she
had
given
me.
And
so,
within
ten
minutes,
I
had
left
my
armchair
and
cozy
sitting-room
behind
and
was
heading
eastward
in
a
hansom
on
a
strange
mission,
though
only
the
future
would
reveal
how
strange
it
truly
was
to
be.
However,
the
first
part
of
my
adventure
wasn’t
difficult.
Upper
Swandam
Lane
is
a
filthy
alley
hidden
behind
the
tall
wharves
lining
the
north
side
of
the
river
east
of
London
Bridge.
Between
a
cheap
clothing
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
I
was
looking
for.
I
told
my
cab
to
wait
and
went
down
the
steps,
worn
in
the
middle
by
the
constant
tread
of
drunken
feet.
By
the
flickering
light
of
an
oil
lamp
above
the
door,
I
found
the
latch
and
entered
a
long,
low
room,
thick
with
brown
opium
smoke
and
lined
with
wooden
berths
like
an
emigrant
ship’s
forecastle.
Through
the
dimness,
one
could
barely
see
bodies
in
strange
poses,
bowed
shoulders,
bent
knees,
heads
thrown
back,
and
chins
pointing
upward,
with
the
occasional
dark,
lackluster
eye
staring
at
the
newcomer.
Out
of
the
shadows,
small
red
circles
of
light
glimmered,
now
bright,
now
faint,
as
the
burning
poison
waxed
or
waned
in
the
metal
pipe
bowls.
Most
lay
silent,
but
some
muttered
to
themselves,
and
others
spoke
together
in
a
strange,
low,
monotonous
voice,
their
conversation
coming
in
bursts
and
then
suddenly
fading
into
silence,
each
mumbling
their
own
thoughts
and
paying
little
attention
to
their
neighbor’s
words.
At
the
far
end
was
a
small
brazier
of
burning
charcoal,
beside
which,
on
a
three-legged
wooden
stool,
sat
a
tall,
thin
old
man,
his
jaw
resting
on
his
fists,
his
elbows
on
his
knees,
staring
into
the
fire.
As
I
entered,
a
sallow
Malay
attendant
hurried
up
with
a
pipe
for
me
and
a
supply
of
the
drug,
gesturing
to
an
empty
berth.
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Las aventuras de Sherlock Holmes — B2 Inglés | Cuentana