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1Isa Whitney, brother of the late Elias Whitney, D.D., Principal of the Theological College of St. George's, was much
2addicted to opium. The habit grew upon him, as I understand, from some foolish freak when he was at college; for having
3read De Quincey's description of his dreams and sensations, he had drenched his tobacco with laudanum in an attempt to
4produce the same effects. He found, as so many more have done, that the practice is easier to attain than to get rid of,
5and for many years he continued to be a slave to the drug, an object of mingled horror and pity to his friends and
6relatives. I can see him now, with yellow, pasty face, drooping lids, and pin-point pupils, all huddled in a chair, the
7wreck and ruin of a noble man. One night--it was in June, '89--there came a ring to my bell, about the hour when a man
8gives his first yawn and glances at the clock. I sat up in my chair, and my wife laid her needle-work down in her lap
9and made a little face of disappointment. "A patient!" said she. "You'll have to go out." I groaned, for I was newly
10come back from a weary day. We heard the door open, a few hurried words, and then quick steps upon the linoleum. Our own
11door flew open, and a lady, clad in some dark-coloured stuff, with a black veil, entered the room. "You will excuse my
12calling so late," she began, and then, suddenly losing her self-control, she ran forward, threw her arms about my wife's
13neck, and sobbed upon her shoulder. "Oh, I'm in such trouble!" she cried; "I do so want a little help." "Why," said my
14wife, pulling up her veil, "it is Kate Whitney. How you startled me, Kate! I had not an idea who you were when you came
15in." "I didn't know what to do, so I came straight to you." That was always the way. Folk who were in grief came to my
16wife like birds to a lighthouse. "It was very sweet of you to come. Now, you must have some wine and water, and sit here
17comfortably and tell us all about it. Or should you rather that I sent James off to bed?" "Oh, no, no! I want the
18doctor'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
19not 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
20and school companion. We soothed and comforted her by such words as we could find. Did she know where her husband was?
21Was it possible that we could bring him back to her? It seems that it was. She had the surest information that of late
22he had, when the fit was on him, made use of an opium den in the farthest east of the City. Hitherto his orgies had
23always been confined to one day, and he had come back, twitching and shattered, in the evening. But now the spell had
24been upon him eight-and-forty hours, and he lay there, doubtless among the dregs of the docks, breathing in the poison
25or sleeping off the effects. There he was to be found, she was sure of it, at the Bar of Gold, in Upper Swandam Lane.
26But 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
27from among the ruffians who surrounded him? There was the case, and of course there was but one way out of it. Might I
28not escort her to this place? And then, as a second thought, why should she come at all? I was Isa Whitney's medical
29adviser, and as such I had influence over him. I could manage it better if I were alone. I promised her on my word that
30I 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
31minutes I had left my armchair and cheery sitting-room behind me, and was speeding eastward in a hansom on a strange
32errand, as it seemed to me at the time, though the future only could show how strange it was to be. But there was no
33great difficulty in the first stage of my adventure. Upper Swandam Lane is a vile alley lurking behind the high wharves
34which line the north side of the river to the east of London Bridge. Between a slop-shop and a gin-shop, approached by a
35steep 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.
36Ordering my cab to wait, I passed down the steps, worn hollow in the centre by the ceaseless tread of drunken feet; and
37by 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
38heavy with the brown opium smoke, and terraced with wooden berths, like the forecastle of an emigrant ship. Through the
39gloom one could dimly catch a glimpse of bodies lying in strange fantastic poses, bowed shoulders, bent knees, heads
40thrown back, and chins pointing upward, with here and there a dark, lack-lustre eye turned upon the newcomer. Out of the
41black shadows there glimmered little red circles of light, now bright, now faint, as the burning poison waxed or waned
42in the bowls of the metal pipes. The most lay silent, but some muttered to themselves, and others talked together in a
43strange, low, monotonous voice, their conversation coming in gushes, and then suddenly tailing off into silence, each
44mumbling out his own thoughts and paying little heed to the words of his neighbour. At the farther end was a small
45brazier of burning charcoal, beside which on a three-legged wooden stool there sat a tall, thin old man, with his jaw
46resting upon his two fists, and his elbows upon his knees, staring into the fire. As I entered, a sallow Malay attendant
47had 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
48to stay," said I. "There is a friend of mine here, Mr. Isa Whitney, and I wish to speak with him." There was a movement
49and an exclamation from my right, and peering through the gloom, I saw Whitney, pale, haggard, and unkempt, staring out
50at me. "My God! It's Watson," said he. He was in a pitiable state of reaction, with every nerve in a twitter. "I say,
51Watson, what o'clock is it?" "Nearly eleven." "Of what day?" "Of Friday, June 19th." "Good heavens! I thought it was
52Wednesday. It is Wednesday. What d'you want to frighten a chap for?" He sank his face onto his arms and began to sob in
53a high treble key. "I tell you that it is Friday, man. Your wife has been waiting this two days for you. You should be
54ashamed of yourself!" "So I am. But you've got mixed, Watson, for I have only been here a few hours, three pipes, four
55pipes--I forget how many. But I'll go home with you. I wouldn't frighten Kate--poor little Kate. Give me your hand! Have
56you 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
57all off colour. I can do nothing for myself."
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