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Las aventuras de Sherlock Holmes
The Man with the Twisted Lip
Capítulo 6, Página 2
“It
was
very
sweet
of
you
to
come.
Now,
you
must
have
some
wine
and
water,
and
sit
here
comfortably
and
tell
us
all
about
it.
Or
should
you
rather
that
I
sent
James
off
to
bed?”
“Oh,
no,
no!
I
want
the
doctor’s
advice
and
help,
too.
It’s
about
Isa.
He
has
not
been
home
for
two
days.
I
am
so
frightened
about
him!”
It
was
not
the
first
time
that
she
had
spoken
to
us
of
her
husband’s
trouble,
to
me
as
a
doctor,
to
my
wife
as
an
old
friend
and
school
companion.
We
soothed
and
comforted
her
by
such
words
as
we
could
find.
Did
she
know
where
her
husband
was?
Was
it
possible
that
we
could
bring
him
back
to
her?
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.
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Las aventuras de Sherlock Holmes — C1 Inglés | Cuentana