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
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