breath to keep out the vile, stupefying fumes of the drug, and looking about

for the manager. As I passed the tall man who sat by the brazier I felt a

sudden pluck at my skirt, and a low voice whispered, “Walk past me, and

then look back at me.” The words fell quite distinctly upon my ear. I

glanced down. They could only have come from the old man at my side, and yet he

sat now as absorbed as ever, very thin, very wrinkled, bent with age, an opium

pipe dangling down from between his knees, as though it had dropped in sheer

lassitude from his fingers. I took two steps forward and looked back. It took

all my self-control to prevent me from breaking out into a cry of astonishment.

He had turned his back so that none could see him but I. His form had filled

out, his wrinkles were gone, the dull eyes had regained their fire, and there,

sitting by the fire and grinning at my surprise, was none other than Sherlock

Holmes. He made a slight motion to me to approach him, and instantly, as he

turned his face half round to the company once more, subsided into a doddering,

loose-lipped senility.


“Holmes!” I whispered, “what on earth are you doing in this

den?”


“As low as you can,” he answered; “I have excellent ears. If

you would have the great kindness to get rid of that sottish friend of yours I

should be exceedingly glad to have a little talk with you.”


“I have a cab outside.”


“Then pray send him home in it. You may safely trust him, for he appears

to be too limp to get into any mischief. I should recommend you also to send a

note by the cabman to your wife to say that you have thrown in your lot with

me. If you will wait outside, I shall be with you in five minutes.”


It was difficult to refuse any of Sherlock Holmes’ requests, for they

were always so exceedingly definite, and put forward with such a quiet air of

mastery. I felt, however, that when Whitney was once confined in the cab my