The Man with the Twisted Lip

By Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

Dr. Watson goes to an opium den, trying to track down the husband of one of his wife's friends but the man is not the only person he finds there... Sherlock Holmes is there too and he is searching for someone as well. Where has Neville St. Clair gone and why is it not his handwriting on the letter he sent to his wife? And what does the beggar Boone have to do with it all?"The Man with the Twisted Lip" is part of "The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes".-

• Language: English
• Publisher: SAGA Egmont
• Release date: Sep 28, 2020
• ISBN: 9788726586237

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (1859-1930) was a British writer best known for his creation of the legendary detective Sherlock Holmes. In addition to being considered a father of detective fiction, he also wrote a series of science-fiction adventures starring the brilliant, daring, and comical Professor Challenger.

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Arthur Conan Doyle

The Man with the Twisted Lip

SAGA Egmont

The Man with the Twisted Lip

The characters and use of language in the work do not express the views of the publisher. The work is published as a historical document that describes its contemporary human perception.

Copyright © 1891, 2020 Arthur Conan Doyle and SAGA Egmont

All rights reserved

ISBN: 9788726586237

1. e-book edition, 2020

Format: EPUB 2.0

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Isa Whitney, brother of the late Elias Whitney, D.D., Principal of the Theological College of St. George’s, was much addicted to opium. The habit grew upon him, as I understand, from some foolish freak when he was at college; for having read De Quincey’s description of his dreams and sensations, he had drenched his tobacco with laudanum in an attempt to produce the same effects. He found, as so many more have done, that the practice is easier to attain than to get rid of, and for many years he continued to be a slave to the drug, an object of mingled horror and pity to his friends and relatives. I can see him now, with yellow, pasty face, drooping lids, and pin-point pupils, all huddled in a chair, the wreck and ruin of a noble man.

One night — it was in June, ’89 — there came a ring to my bell, about the hour when a man gives his first yawn and glances at the clock. I sat up in my chair, and my wife laid her needle-work down in her lap and made a little face of disappointment.

A patient! said she. You’ll have to go out.

I groaned, for I was newly come back from a weary day.

We heard the door open, a few hurried words, and then quick steps upon the linoleum. Our own door flew open, and a lady, clad in some dark-coloured stuff, with a black veil, entered the room.

You will excuse my calling so late, she began, and then, suddenly losing her self-control, she ran forward, threw her arms about my wife’s neck, and sobbed upon her shoulder. Oh, I’m in such trouble! she cried; I do so want a little help.

Why, said my wife, pulling up her veil, it is Kate Whitney. How you startled me, Kate! I had not an idea who you were when you came in.

I didn’t know what to do, so I came straight to you.