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