(A Story of Holmes)Mr Isa Whitney was an opium addict and he could not get rid of the habit. He had once been a fine man, but now people only pitied this bent, unfortunate person with yellow, unhealthy face. Opium was both his ruin and his only pleasure.One night in June, when it was almost time to go to bed, I heard the door bell ring. I sat up in my chair, and Mary, my wife, put her sewing down in annoyance."A patient!" she said. "At this hour!"We heard the servant opening the front door and speaking to someone. A moment later the door of our sitting room was thrown open and a lady came in. She wore a black veil over her face."Please forgive me for calling on you so late," she began. But she could no longer control her feelings. She ran forward, threw her arms round Mary's neck, and cried bitterly on her shoulder. "Oh, I'm in such trouble!" she said. "I need help so much!""Why!" said my wife, pulling up the visitor's veil, "its Kate Whitney. You did give me a surprise, Kate! I had no idea who you were when you came in.""I didn't know what to do, and so I came straight to you."That was how it always happened. People who were in trouble came to my wife like birds to a lighthouse."We are very glad to see you," Mary said. "Now you must have some wine and water and sit here comfortably and tell us all about it. Or would you like me to send John off to bed?""Oh, no, no! I want to doctor's advice and help too. It's about Isa. He hasn't been home for two days. I'm so frightened about him!"This was not the first time that Mrs Whitney had spoken to us of her husband's bad ways; she and Mary had been at school together. We did our best to calm her down and comfort her."Have you any idea where he has gone?" I asked."Yes," Mrs Whitney replied. "He's probably at a place called the Bar of Gold, in East Swandam Street. It's a place where opium addicts go. This is the first time that Isa has spent more than a day there."I was Isa Whitney's doctor and had a certain influence with him."I will go to this place, " I said. "If he is there I will send him home in a cab within two hours."Five minutes later I had left my comfortable chair and sitting room and was in a fast cab on my way east.Upper Swandam Street was on the north side of the river, to the east of London Bridge. The Bar of Gold was below the lever of the street. Some steep steps led down to the entrance, which looked like the mouth of a cave. There was an oil lamp hanging above the door. I ordered the cab driver to wait, and went down the steps.Inside, it was difficult to see very much through the thick brown opium smoke. The place was a long low room, and was full of beds like those on board a ship, on top another. In the half-light I could just see people lying in strange positions on the beds, and little red circles which were the pipes of burning opium. Some of the people were talking softly to themselves. Near one end of the room there was a fireplace, in which a small fire was burning. A tall, thin old man sat there, looking into the fire.A Malayan servant who belonged to the place came up to me with some opium and a pipe. He point to an empty bed."No, thank you," I said. "I haven't come to stay. There is a friend of mine here, Mr Isa Whitney, and I want to speak to him."A man on one of the beds suddenly sat up, and I recognized Whitney. He was pale, untidy, and wild-looking."Watson!" he cried. "Tell me, Watson, what time is it?""Nearly eleven o'clock.""On what day?""Friday, June the 19th.""Good heavens! I thought it was Wednesday.""No, it's Friday. And your wife has been waiting two days for you. You ought to be ashamed of yourself!"He began to cry. "I was sure I had been here only a few hours! But I'll go home with you. I don't want to frighten Kate---poor little Kate! Give me your hand: I can't do anything for myself. Have you a cab?""Yes, I have one waiting.""Good. But I must owe something here. Find out what I owe them, Watson." As I walked along the narrow passage between the beds, looking for the manager, I felt someone touch my sleeve. It was the tall man by the fire. "Walk past me, and then look back at me," he said. When I looked again he was still bending over the fire --- a bend, tired old man. Suddenly he looked up and smiled at me. I recognized Sherlock Holmes."Holmes!" I whispered. "What on earth are you doing in this disgusting place?"

"Speak more quietly! I have excellent ears. Please get rid of that friend of yours. I want to talk to you.""I have a cab outside.""Then send him home in it. And I suggest that you give the driver a note for your wife. Tell her you are with me. And wait outside for me: I'll be with you in five minutes."In a few minutes I had written my notes, paid Whitney's bill, led him out to the cab, and said "Good night" to him. Then Holmes came out of the Bar of Gold, and we walked along together. At first he walked unsteadily, with a bent back, but after the first few streets he straightened himself out and laughed heartily. "I suppose you think I have become an opium addict, Watson!" he said."I was certainly surprised to see you here!""I came to find a friend.""And I came to find an enemy!""An enemy?""Yes, Watson, one of my natural enemy---a criminal! I am working on one of my cases. I fear that Mr Neville Saint Clair entered the Bar of Gold and that he will never come out of the place alive. There is a door at the back of the building that opened onto the river. I believe that many men have been murdered there, and that their bodies have been thrown out through that door. If I had been recognized the wicked Indian sailor who owns the place would have murdered me too! I have used the Bar of Gold before my own purposes, and have often found useful clues there, in the conversation of the opium addicts. The owner has sworn to have his revenge on me for it." Suddenly Holmes whistled loudly. "The carriage should be here by now!" he said.We heard an answering whistle in the distance. Then we saw the yellow lamps of the little carriage as it came here."Now, Watson, you will come with me, won't you?" said Holmes, as he climbed in."If it can be of any use.""Oh, a friend is always useful. And my room at the Saint Clair's has two beds.""At the Saint Clair's?""Yes. I am staying there while I work on the case.""Where is it, then?""Near Lee, in Kent. It's a seven-mile drive. Come on!""But I don't know anything about your case!""Of course you don't. But you soon will! Jump up here. All right. Harold," he said to the driver, "we shan't need you." He handed the man a coin. "Look out for me tomorrow at about eleven o'clock. Good night!"For the first part of our drive Holmes was silent and I waited patiently for him to begin."I have been wondering what I can say to that dear little woman tonight when she meets me at the door," he said at last. "I am thinking about Mrs Saint Clair, of course."Neville Saint Clair came to live near Lee five years ago. He took a large house and lived like a rich man. He gradually made friends in the neighbourhood, and two years ago he married the daughter of a local farmer. Neville Saint Clair was a businessman in London. He used to leave home every morning and then catch the 5: 14 train back from Cannon Street Station every evening. He had shares in several companies. If he is still alive he is now thirty-seven years old. He has no bad habits; he is a good husband and father; and everybody likes him. He has debts of￡88 at present, but his bank account contains ￡220. So he can't have any money trouble.

"Last Monday he went into London rather earlier than usual. He said that he had two important pieces of business to do that day. He also promised to buy his little boy a box of toy bricks. Now, that same day his wife happened to receive a telegram from the Aberdeen Shipping Company. This informed her that a valuable parcel which she was expecting had arrived at the Company's offices in London. These offices are in Fresno Street, which is off Upper Swandam Street, where you found me tonight. Mrs Saint Clair had her lunch, caught a train to London, did some shopping, and then went to the shipping company's offices. She walked slowly along Upper Swandam Street, hoping to find a cab. It was a very hot day, and she did not like the neighbourhood at all. Suddenly she heard a cry, and saw her husband looking down at her from a window on the first floor of one of the house. He seemed to be waving to her, as if he wanted her to come up. The window was open, and she had a clear view of his face. He looked very disturbed and excited. She noticed that he had no collar or tie on; but he was wearing a dark coat like the one he had put on that morning. Then, very suddenly, somebody seemed to pull him back from the window. ''Mrs Saint Clair felt sure that something was seriously wrong. She saw that the entrance of the house was below ground level; this was the door of the Bar of Gold. She rushed down the steps and tired to go up the stairs which led to the upper part of the house. But the owner--- the Indian sailor I spoke of---ran downstairs and pushed her back. The Malayan servant helped him to push her out into the street. She rushed along Upper Swandam Street and into Fresno Street, where she fortunately found several policemen. They forced their way into the Bar of Gold and went upstairs to the room in which Mr Saint Clair had last been seen. There was no sign of him there. In fact the only person in the upper part of the house was an ugly cripple who lived there. Both the Indian and this cripple swore that no one else had been in the first-floor front room that afternoon. Suddenly, however, Mrs Saint Clair noticed a small wooden box on the table and realized what it contained. She tore the lid off and emptied out a great quantity of children's bricks. It was the toy that her husband had promised to bring home for his little boy.

"This is my friend Doctor Watson. He has been of great use to me in several of my cases. By a lucky chance he has been able to come with me this evening.""I am delighted to see you," said Mrs Saint Clair, pressing my hand warmly. She led us into a pleasant dining room where there was a cold supper laid out on the table. "Now, Mr Holmes, I have one or two questions to ask you, and I should like you to answer them truthfully.""Certainly, Mrs Saint Clair.""It is your real opinion that I want to know.""About what?" Holmes asked."Do you truly believe that Neville is still alive?"Holmes did not seem to like this question. "Truly, now!" she repeated, looking at him as he leant back in his chair."Truly, then, I do not," he answered at last."You think he is dead?""Yes.""And that he was murdered?""I don't know. Perhaps.""And on what day did he die?""On Monday.""Then, Mr Holmes, how do you explain this letter that I have received from him today?"Sherlock Holmes sprang out of his chair. "What!" he shouted."Yes, today." Smiling, she held up an envelope."May I see it?""Certainly."In his eagerness he seized it from her quite rudely, smoothed it out on the table, and examined it very thoroughly. I looked at it over his shoulder. The envelope was a cheap brown one, and it had been posted at Gravesend in North Kent earlier in the day."The handwriting on the envelope is coarse," said Holmes. "Surely this is not your husband's handwriting, Mrs Saint Clair?""No, but the letter inside is in his handwriting.""I see that whoever addressed the envelope had to go and find out your address.""How can you tell that?""The name, you see, is in perfectly black ink, and has been allowed to dry slowly. The address is almost grey---which proves that sand has been thrown on the writing to dry it. The man who wrote this envelope wrote the name first, and then paused for some time before writing the address. The only explanation is that he did not know it. But let us look at the letter! Ah! some object has been enclosed in this.""Yes," said Mrs Saint Clair, "there was a ring. Neville's ring.""Are you sure that this is in your husband's writing?""Yes---though it's easy to see that he wrote it in a great hurry."This is what the letter said:"Dearest Olivia, do not be frightened. Everything will be all right. There is a mistake that it will take some time to put right. Wait patiently. ---Neville.""This," said Holmes, "is a page torn from some book. It was posted by a man with a dirty thumb. And whoever closed the envelope had a lump of tobacco in his mouth. Well, Mrs Saint Clair, things are beginning to seem a little more hopeful, but I do not think the danger is over yet.""But Neville must be alive, Mr Holmes!" "Unless this letter is the work of a clever forge. After all, the ring proves nothing. It may have been taken from him.""No, no! That's certainly his own handwriting!""Very well. But the letter may have been written on Monday, and only posted today.""That is possible.""If so, many things may have happened between the two days.""Oh, you must not make me lose courage, Mr Holmes! I know that Neville is all right. There is such a strong sympathy between us that I always know when any accident happens to him. On that last morning he cut himself in the bedroom, and I in the dining room knew at once that something had happened to him. I rushed upstairs and found that I was right. Do you think I could possibly not know about it if he had been murdered?""But if your husband is alive and able to write letters, why should he remain away from you?""I can't imagine!""And on Monday he said nothing unusual before leaving home?""No.""And you were surprised to see him at that window in Upper Swandam Street?""Yes, extremely surprised.""Was the window open?"