mission was practically accomplished; and for the rest, I could not wish

anything better than to be associated with my friend in one of those singular

adventures which were the normal condition of his existence. In a few minutes I

had written my note, paid Whitney’s bill, led him out to the cab, and

seen him driven through the darkness. In a very short time a decrepit figure

had emerged from the opium den, and I was walking down the street with Sherlock

Holmes. For two streets he shuffled along with a bent back and an uncertain

foot. Then, glancing quickly round, he straightened himself out and burst into

a hearty fit of laughter.


“I suppose, Watson,” said he, “that you imagine that I have

added opium-smoking to cocaine injections, and all the other little weaknesses

on which you have favoured me with your medical views.”


“I was certainly surprised to find you there.”


“But not more so than I to find you.”


“I came to find a friend.”


“And I to find an enemy.”


“An enemy?”


“Yes; one of my natural enemies, or, shall I say, my natural prey.

Briefly, Watson, I am in the midst of a very remarkable inquiry, and I have

hoped to find a clue in the incoherent ramblings of these sots, as I have done

before now. Had I been recognised in that den my life would not have been worth

an hour’s purchase; for I have used it before now for my own purposes,

and the rascally Lascar who runs it has sworn to have vengeance upon me. There

is a trap-door at the back of that building, near the corner of Paul’s

Wharf, which could tell some strange tales of what has passed through it upon

the moonless nights.”


“What! You do not mean bodies?”


“Ay, bodies, Watson. We should be rich men if we had £ 1000 for every

poor devil who has been done to death in that den. It is the vilest murder-trap

on the whole riverside, and I fear that Neville St. Clair has entered it never

to leave it more. But our trap should be here.” He put his two