第 十 章 · The Greek Interpreter

. The Greek Interpreter

During my long and intimate acquaintance with Mr. Sherlock Holmes

I had never heard him refer to his relations, and hardly ever to

his own early life. This reticence upon his part had increased

the somewhat inhuman effect which he produced upon me, until

sometimes I found myself regarding him as an isolated phenomenon,

a brain without a heart, as deficient in human sympathy as he was

pre-eminent in intelligence. His aversion to women and his

disinclination to form new friendships were both typical of his

unemotional character, but not more so than his complete

suppression of every reference to his own people. I had come to

believe that he was an orphan with no relatives living, but one

day, to my very great surprise, he began to talk to me about his

brother.

It was after tea on a summer evening, and the conversation, which

had roamed in a desultory, spasmodic fashion from golf clubs to

the causes of the change in the obliquity of the ecliptic, came

round at last to the question of atavism and hereditary

aptitudes. The point under discussion was, how far any singular

gift in an individual was due to his ancestry and how far to his

own early training.

“In your own case,” said I, “from all that you have told me, it

seems obvious that your faculty of observation and your peculiar

facility for deduction are due to your own systematic training.”

“To some extent,” he answered, thoughtfully. “My ancestors were

country squires, who appear to have led much the same life as is

natural to their class. But, none the less, my turn that way is

in my veins, and may have come with my grandmother, who was the

sister of Vernet, the French artist. Art in the blood is liable

to take the strangest forms.”

“But how do you know that it is hereditary?”

“Because my brother Mycroft possesses it in a larger degree than

I do.”

This was news to me indeed. If there were another man with such

singular powers in England, how was it that neither police nor

public had heard of him? I put the question, with a hint that it

was my companion’s modesty which made him acknowledge his brother

as his superior. Holmes laughed at my suggestion.

“My dear Watson,” said he, “I cannot agree with those who rank

modesty among the virtues. To the logician all things should be

seen exactly as they are, and to underestimate one’s self is as

much a departure from truth as to exaggerate one’s own powers.

When I say, therefore, that Mycroft has better powers of

observation than I, you may take it that I am speaking the exact

and literal truth.”

“Is he your junior?”

“Seven years my senior.”

“How comes it that he is unknown?”

“Oh, he is very well known in his own circle.”

“Where, then?”

“Well, in the Diogenes Club, for example.”

I had never heard of the institution, and my face must have

proclaimed as much, for Sherlock Holmes pulled out his watch.

“The Diogenes Club is the queerest club in London, and Mycroft

one of the queerest men. He’s always there from quarter to five

to twenty to eight. It’s six now, so if you care for a stroll

this beautiful evening I shall be very happy to introduce you to

two curiosities.”

Five minutes later we were in the street, walking towards

Regent’s Circus.

“You wonder,” said my companion, “why it is that Mycroft does not

use his powers for detective work. He is incapable of it.”

“But I thought you said—”

“I said that he was my superior in observation and deduction. If

the art of the detective began and ended in reasoning from an

armchair, my brother would be the greatest criminal agent that

ever lived. But he has no ambition and no energy. He will not

even go out of his way to verify his own solutions, and would

rather be considered wrong than take the trouble to prove himself

right. Again and again I have taken a problem to him, and have

received an explanation which has afterwards proved to be the

correct one. And yet he was absolutely incapable of working out

the practical points which must be gone into before a case could

be laid before a judge or jury.”

“It is not his profession, then?”

“By no means. What is to me a means of livelihood is to him the

merest hobby of a dilettante. He has an extraordinary faculty for

figures, and audits the books in some of the government

departments. Mycroft lodges in Pall Mall, and he walks round the

corner into Whitehall every morning and back every evening. From

year’s end to year’s end he takes no other exercise, and is seen

nowhere else, except only in the Diogenes Club, which is just

opposite his rooms.”

“I cannot recall the name.”

“Very likely not. There are many men in London, you know, who,

some from shyness, some from misanthropy, have no wish for the

company of their fellows. Yet they are not averse to comfortable

chairs and the latest periodicals. It is for the convenience of

these that the Diogenes Club was started, and it now contains the

most unsociable and unclubable men in town. No member is

permitted to take the least notice of any other one. Save in the

Stranger’s Room, no talking is, under any circumstances, allowed,

and three offences, if brought to the notice of the committee,

render the talker liable to expulsion. My brother was one of the

founders, and I have myself found it a very soothing atmosphere.”

We had reached Pall Mall as we talked, and were walking down it

from the St. James’s end. Sherlock Holmes stopped at a door some

little distance from the Carlton, and, cautioning me not to

speak, he led the way into the hall. Through the glass paneling I

caught a glimpse of a large and luxurious room, in which a

considerable number of men were sitting about and reading papers,

each in his own little nook. Holmes showed me into a small

chamber which looked out into Pall Mall, and then, leaving me for

a minute, he came back with a companion whom I knew could only be

his brother.

Mycroft Holmes was a much larger and stouter man than Sherlock.

His body was absolutely corpulent, but his face, though massive,

had preserved something of the sharpness of expression which was

so remarkable in that of his brother. His eyes, which were of a

peculiarly light, watery grey, seemed to always retain that

far-away, introspective look which I had only observed in

Sherlock’s when he was exerting his full powers.

“I am glad to meet you, sir,” said he, putting out a broad, fat

hand like the flipper of a seal. “I hear of Sherlock everywhere

since you became his chronicler. By the way, Sherlock, I expected

to see you round last week, to consult me over that Manor House

case. I thought you might be a little out of your depth.”

“No, I solved it,” said my friend, smiling.

“It was Adams, of course.”

“Yes, it was Adams.”

“I was sure of it from the first.” The two sat down together in

the bow-window of the club. “To any one who wishes to study

mankind this is the spot,” said Mycroft. “Look at the magnificent

types! Look at these two men who are coming towards us, for

example.”

“The billiard-marker and the other?”

“Precisely. What do you make of the other?”

The two men had stopped opposite the window. Some chalk marks

over the waistcoat pocket were the only signs of billiards which

I could see in one of them. The other was a very small, dark

fellow, with his hat pushed back and several packages under his

arm.

“An old soldier, I perceive,” said Sherlock.

“And very recently discharged,” remarked the brother.

“Served in India, I see.”

“And a non-commissioned officer.”

“Royal Artillery, I fancy,” said Sherlock.

“And a widower.”

“But with a child.”

“Children, my dear boy, children.”

“Come,” said I, laughing, “this is a little too much.”

“Surely,” answered Holmes, “it is not hard to say that a man with

that bearing, expression of authority, and sunbaked skin, is a

soldier, is more than a private, and is not long from India.”

“That he has not left the service long is shown by his still

wearing his ammunition boots, as they are called,” observed

Mycroft.

“He had not the cavalry stride, yet he wore his hat on one side,

as is shown by the lighter skin of that side of his brow. His

weight is against his being a sapper. He is in the artillery.”

“Then, of course, his complete mourning shows that he has lost

some one very dear. The fact that he is doing his own shopping

looks as though it were his wife. He has been buying things for

children, you perceive. There is a rattle, which shows that one

of them is very young. The wife probably died in childbed. The

fact that he has a picture-book under his arm shows that there is

another child to be thought of.”

I began to understand what my friend meant when he said that his

brother possessed even keener faculties that he did himself. He

glanced across at me and smiled. Mycroft took snuff from a

tortoise-shell box, and brushed away the wandering grains from

his coat front with a large, red silk handkerchief.

“By the way, Sherlock,” said he, “I have had something quite

after your own heart—a most singular problem—submitted to my

judgment. I really had not the energy to follow it up save in a

very incomplete fashion, but it gave me a basis for some pleasing

speculation. If you would care to hear the facts—”

“My dear Mycroft, I should be delighted.”

The brother scribbled a note upon a leaf of his pocket-book, and,

ringing the bell, he handed it to the waiter.

“I have asked Mr. Melas to step across,” said he. “He lodges on

the floor above me, and I have some slight acquaintance with him,

which led him to come to me in his perplexity. Mr. Melas is a

Greek by extraction, as I understand, and he is a remarkable

linguist. He earns his living partly as interpreter in the law

courts and partly by acting as guide to any wealthy Orientals who

may visit the Northumberland Avenue hotels. I think I will leave

him to tell his very remarkable experience in his own fashion.”

A few minutes later we were joined by a short, stout man whose

olive face and coal-black hair proclaimed his Southern origin,

though his speech was that of an educated Englishman. He shook

hands eagerly with Sherlock Holmes, and his dark eyes sparkled

with pleasure when he understood that the specialist was anxious

to hear his story.

“I do not believe that the police credit me—on my word, I do

not,” said he in a wailing voice. “Just because they have never

heard of it before, they think that such a thing cannot be. But I

know that I shall never be easy in my mind until I know what has

become of my poor man with the sticking-plaster upon his face.”

“I am all attention,” said Sherlock Holmes.

“This is Wednesday evening,” said Mr. Melas. “Well then, it was

Monday night—only two days ago, you understand—that all this

happened. I am an interpreter, as perhaps my neighbour there has

told you. I interpret all languages—or nearly all—but as I am a

Greek by birth and with a Grecian name, it is with that

particular tongue that I am principally associated. For many

years I have been the chief Greek interpreter in London, and my

name is very well known in the hotels.

“It happens not unfrequently that I am sent for at strange hours

by foreigners who get into difficulties, or by travelers who

arrive late and wish my services. I was not surprised, therefore,

on Monday night when a Mr. Latimer, a very fashionably dressed

young man, came up to my rooms and asked me to accompany him in a

cab which was waiting at the door. A Greek friend had come to see

him upon business, he said, and as he could speak nothing but his

own tongue, the services of an interpreter were indispensable. He

gave me to understand that his house was some little distance

off, in Kensington, and he seemed to be in a great hurry,

bustling me rapidly into the cab when we had descended to the

street.

“I say into the cab, but I soon became doubtful as to whether it

was not a carriage in which I found myself. It was certainly more

roomy than the ordinary four-wheeled disgrace to London, and the

fittings, though frayed, were of rich quality. Mr. Latimer seated

himself opposite to me and we started off through Charing Cross

and up the Shaftesbury Avenue. We had come out upon Oxford Street

and I had ventured some remark as to this being a roundabout way

to Kensington, when my words were arrested by the extraordinary

conduct of my companion.

“He began by drawing a most formidable-looking bludgeon loaded

with lead from his pocket, and switching it backward and forward

several times, as if to test its weight and strength. Then he

placed it without a word upon the seat beside him. Having done

this, he drew up the windows on each side, and I found to my

astonishment that they were covered with paper so as to prevent

my seeing through them.

“‘I am sorry to cut off your view, Mr. Melas,’ said he. ‘The fact

is that I have no intention that you should see what the place is

to which we are driving. It might possibly be inconvenient to me

if you could find your way there again.’

“As you can imagine, I was utterly taken aback by such an

address. My companion was a powerful, broad-shouldered young

fellow, and, apart from the weapon, I should not have had the

slightest chance in a struggle with him.

“‘This is very extraordinary conduct, Mr. Latimer,’ I stammered.

‘You must be aware that what you are doing is quite illegal.’

“‘It is somewhat of a liberty, no doubt,’ said he, ‘but we’ll

make it up to you. I must warn you, however, Mr. Melas, that if

at any time to-night you attempt to raise an alarm or do anything

which is against my interests, you will find it a very serious

thing. I beg you to remember that no one knows where you are, and

that, whether you are in this carriage or in my house, you are

equally in my power.’

“His words were quiet, but he had a rasping way of saying them

which was very menacing. I sat in silence wondering what on earth

could be his reason for kidnapping me in this extraordinary

fashion. Whatever it might be, it was perfectly clear that there

was no possible use in my resisting, and that I could only wait

to see what might befall.

“For nearly two hours we drove without my having the least clue

as to where we were going. Sometimes the rattle of the stones

told of a paved causeway, and at others our smooth, silent course

suggested asphalt; but, save by this variation in sound, there

was nothing at all which could in the remotest way help me to

form a guess as to where we were. The paper over each window was

impenetrable to light, and a blue curtain was drawn across the

glass work in front. It was a quarter-past seven when we left

Pall Mall, and my watch showed me that it was ten minutes to nine

when we at last came to a standstill. My companion let down the

window, and I caught a glimpse of a low, arched doorway with a

lamp burning above it. As I was hurried from the carriage it

swung open, and I found myself inside the house, with a vague

impression of a lawn and trees on each side of me as I entered.

Whether these were private grounds, however, or _bonâ-fide_

country was more than I could possibly venture to say.

“There was a coloured gas-lamp inside which was turned so low

that I could see little save that the hall was of some size and

hung with pictures. In the dim light I could make out that the

person who had opened the door was a small, mean-looking,

middle-aged man with rounded shoulders. As he turned towards us

the glint of the light showed me that he was wearing glasses.

“‘Is this Mr. Melas, Harold?’ said he.

“‘Yes.’

“‘Well done, well done! No ill-will, Mr. Melas, I hope, but we

could not get on without you. If you deal fair with us you’ll not

regret it, but if you try any tricks, God help you!’

He spoke in a nervous, jerky fashion, and with little giggling

laughs in between, but somehow he impressed me with fear more

than the other.

“‘What do you want with me?’ I asked.

“‘Only to ask a few questions of a Greek gentleman who is

visiting us, and to let us have the answers. But say no more than

you are told to say, or’—here came the nervous giggle again—‘you

had better never have been born.’

“As he spoke he opened a door and showed the way into a room

which appeared to be very richly furnished, but again the only

light was afforded by a single lamp half-turned down. The chamber

was certainly large, and the way in which my feet sank into the

carpet as I stepped across it told me of its richness. I caught

glimpses of velvet chairs, a high white marble mantel-piece, and

what seemed to be a suit of Japanese armour at one side of it.

There was a chair just under the lamp, and the elderly man

motioned that I should sit in it. The younger had left us, but he

suddenly returned through another door, leading with him a

gentleman clad in some sort of loose dressing-gown who moved

slowly towards us. As he came into the circle of dim light which

enables me to see him more clearly I was thrilled with horror at

his appearance. He was deadly pale and terribly emaciated, with

the protruding, brilliant eyes of a man whose spirit was greater

than his strength. But what shocked me more than any signs of

physical weakness was that his face was grotesquely criss-crossed

with sticking-plaster, and that one large pad of it was fastened

over his mouth.

“‘Have you the slate, Harold?’ cried the older man, as this

strange being fell rather than sat down into a chair. ‘Are his

hands loose? Now, then, give him the pencil. You are to ask the

questions, Mr. Melas, and he will write the answers. Ask him

first of all whether he is prepared to sign the papers?’

“The man’s eyes flashed fire.

“‘Never!’ he wrote in Greek upon the slate.

“‘On no condition?’ I asked, at the bidding of our tyrant.

“‘Only if I see her married in my presence by a Greek priest whom

I know.’

“The man giggled in his venomous way.

“‘You know what awaits you, then?’

“‘I care nothing for myself.’

“These are samples of the questions and answers which made up our

strange half-spoken, half-written conversation. Again and again I

had to ask him whether he would give in and sign the documents.

Again and again I had the same indignant reply. But soon a happy

thought came to me. I took to adding on little sentences of my

own to each question, innocent ones at first, to test whether

either of our companions knew anything of the matter, and then,

as I found that they showed no signs I played a more dangerous

game. Our conversation ran something like this:

“‘You can do no good by this obstinacy. _Who are you?_’

“‘I care not. _I am a stranger in London._’

“‘Your fate will be upon your own head. _How long have you been

here?_’

“‘Let it be so. _Three weeks._’

“‘The property can never be yours. _What ails you?_’

“‘It shall not go to villains. _They are starving me._’

“‘You shall go free if you sign. _What house is this?_’

“‘I will never sign. _I do not know._’

“‘You are not doing her any service. _What is your name?_’

“‘Let me hear her say so. _Kratides._’

“‘You shall see her if you sign. _Where are you from?_’

“‘Then I shall never see her. _Athens._’

“Another five minutes, Mr. Holmes, and I should have wormed out

the whole story under their very noses. My very next question

might have cleared the matter up, but at that instant the door

opened and a woman stepped into the room. I could not see her

clearly enough to know more than that she was tall and graceful,

with black hair, and clad in some sort of loose white gown.

“‘Harold,’ said she, speaking English with a broken accent. ‘I

could not stay away longer. It is so lonely up there with

only—Oh, my God, it is Paul!’

“These last words were in Greek, and at the same instant the man

with a convulsive effort tore the plaster from his lips, and

screaming out ‘Sophy! Sophy!’ rushed into the woman’s arms. Their

embrace was but for an instant, however, for the younger man

seized the woman and pushed her out of the room, while the elder

easily overpowered his emaciated victim, and dragged him away

through the other door. For a moment I was left alone in the

room, and I sprang to my feet with some vague idea that I might

in some way get a clue to what this house was in which I found

myself. Fortunately, however, I took no steps, for looking up I

saw that the older man was standing in the doorway with his eyes

fixed upon me.

“‘That will do, Mr. Melas,’ said he. ‘You perceive that we have

taken you into our confidence over some very private business. We

should not have troubled you, only that our friend who speaks

Greek and who began these negotiations has been forced to return

to the East. It was quite necessary for us to find some one to

take his place, and we were fortunate in hearing of your powers.’

“I bowed.

“‘There are five sovereigns here,’ said he, walking up to me,

‘which will, I hope, be a sufficient fee. But remember,’ he

added, tapping me lightly on the chest and giggling, ‘if you

speak to a human soul about this—one human soul, mind—well, may

God have mercy upon your soul!”

“I cannot tell you the loathing and horror with which this

insignificant-looking man inspired me. I could see him better now

as the lamp-light shone upon him. His features were peaky and

sallow, and his little pointed beard was thready and

ill-nourished. He pushed his face forward as he spoke and his

lips and eyelids were continually twitching like a man with St.

Vitus’s dance. I could not help thinking that his strange, catchy

little laugh was also a symptom of some nervous malady. The

terror of his face lay in his eyes, however, steel grey, and

glistening coldly with a malignant, inexorable cruelty in their

depths.

“‘We shall know if you speak of this,’ said he. ‘We have our own

means of information. Now you will find the carriage waiting, and

my friend will see you on your way.’

“I was hurried through the hall and into the vehicle, again

obtaining that momentary glimpse of trees and a garden. Mr.

Latimer followed closely at my heels, and took his place opposite

to me without a word. In silence we again drove for an

interminable distance with the windows raised, until at last,

just after midnight, the carriage pulled up.

“‘You will get down here, Mr. Melas,’ said my companion. ‘I am

sorry to leave you so far from your house, but there is no

alternative. Any attempt upon your part to follow the carriage

can only end in injury to yourself.’

“He opened the door as he spoke, and I had hardly time to spring

out when the coachman lashed the horse and the carriage rattled

away. I looked around me in astonishment. I was on some sort of a

heathy common mottled over with dark clumps of furze-bushes. Far

away stretched a line of houses, with a light here and there in

the upper windows. On the other side I saw the red signal-lamps

of a railway.

“The carriage which had brought me was already out of sight. I

stood gazing round and wondering where on earth I might be, when

I saw some one coming towards me in the darkness. As he came up

to me I made out that he was a railway porter.

“‘Can you tell me what place this is?’ I asked.

“‘Wandsworth Common,’ said he.

“‘Can I get a train into town?’

“‘If you walk on a mile or so to Clapham Junction,’ said he,

‘you’ll just be in time for the last to Victoria.’

“So that was the end of my adventure, Mr. Holmes. I do not know

where I was, nor whom I spoke with, nor anything save what I have

told you. But I know that there is foul play going on, and I want

to help that unhappy man if I can. I told the whole story to Mr.

Mycroft Holmes next morning, and subsequently to the police.”

We all sat in silence for some little time after listening to

this extraordinary narrative. Then Sherlock looked across at his

brother.

“Any steps?” he asked.

Mycroft picked up the _Daily News_, which was lying on the

side-table.

“‘Anybody supplying any information to the whereabouts of a Greek

gentleman named Paul Kratides, from Athens, who is unable to

speak English, will be rewarded. A similar reward paid to any one

giving information about a Greek lady whose first name is Sophy.

X 2473.’ That was in all the dailies. No answer.”

“How about the Greek Legation?”

“I have inquired. They know nothing.”

“A wire to the head of the Athens police, then?”

“Sherlock has all the energy of the family,” said Mycroft,

turning to me. “Well, you take the case up by all means, and let

me know if you do any good.”

“Certainly,” answered my friend, rising from his chair. “I’ll let

you know, and Mr. Melas also. In the meantime, Mr. Melas, I

should certainly be on my guard, if I were you, for of course

they must know through these advertisements that you have

betrayed them.”

As we walked home together, Holmes stopped at a telegraph office

and sent off several wires.

“You see, Watson,” he remarked, “our evening has been by no means

wasted. Some of my most interesting cases have come to me in this

way through Mycroft. The problem which we have just listened to,

although it can admit of but one explanation, has still some

distinguishing features.”

“You have hopes of solving it?”

“Well, knowing as much as we do, it will be singular indeed if we

fail to discover the rest. You must yourself have formed some

theory which will explain the facts to which we have listened.”

“In a vague way, yes.”

“What was your idea, then?”

“It seemed to me to be obvious that this Greek girl had been

carried off by the young Englishman named Harold Latimer.”

“Carried off from where?”

“Athens, perhaps.”

Sherlock Holmes shook his head. “This young man could not talk a

word of Greek. The lady could talk English fairly well.

Inference, that she had been in England some little time, but he

had not been in Greece.”

“Well, then, we will presume that she had come on a visit to

England, and that this Harold had persuaded her to fly with him.”

“That is more probable.”

“Then the brother—for that, I fancy, must be the

relationship—comes over from Greece to interfere. He imprudently

puts himself into the power of the young man and his older

associate. They seize him and use violence towards him in order

to make him sign some papers to make over the girl’s fortune—of

which he may be trustee—to them. This he refuses to do. In order

to negotiate with him they have to get an interpreter, and they

pitch upon this Mr. Melas, having used some other one before. The

girl is not told of the arrival of her brother, and finds it out

by the merest accident.”

“Excellent, Watson!” cried Holmes. “I really fancy that you are

not far from the truth. You see that we hold all the cards, and

we have only to fear some sudden act of violence on their part.

If they give us time we must have them.”

“But how can we find where this house lies?”

“Well, if our conjecture is correct and the girl’s name is or was

Sophy Kratides, we should have no difficulty in tracing her. That

must be our main hope, for the brother is, of course, a complete

stranger. It is clear that some time has elapsed since this

Harold established these relations with the girl—some weeks, at

any rate—since the brother in Greece has had time to hear of it

and come across. If they have been living in the same place

during this time, it is probable that we shall have some answer

to Mycroft’s advertisement.”

We had reached our house in Baker Street while we had been

talking. Holmes ascended the stair first, and as he opened the

door of our room he gave a start of surprise. Looking over his

shoulder, I was equally astonished. His brother Mycroft was

sitting smoking in the armchair.

“Come in, Sherlock! Come in, sir,” said he blandly, smiling at

our surprised faces. “You don’t expect such energy from me, do

you, Sherlock? But somehow this case attracts me.”

“How did you get here?”

“I passed you in a hansom.”

“There has been some new development?”

“I had an answer to my advertisement.”

“Ah!”

“Yes, it came within a few minutes of your leaving.”

“And to what effect?”

Mycroft Holmes took out a sheet of paper.

“Here it is,” said he, “written with a J pen on royal cream paper

by a middle-aged man with a weak constitution. ‘Sir,’ he says,

‘in answer to your advertisement of to-day’s date, I beg to

inform you that I know the young lady in question very well. If

you should care to call upon me I could give you some particulars

as to her painful history. She is living at present at The

Myrtles, Beckenham. Yours faithfully, J. Davenport.’

“He writes from Lower Brixton,” said Mycroft Holmes. “Do you not

think that we might drive to him now, Sherlock, and learn these

particulars?”

“My dear Mycroft, the brother’s life is more valuable than the

sister’s story. I think we should call at Scotland Yard for

Inspector Gregson, and go straight out to Beckenham. We know that

a man is being done to death, and every hour may be vital.”

“Better pick up Mr. Melas on our way,” I suggested. “We may need

an interpreter.”

“Excellent,” said Sherlock Holmes. “Send the boy for a

four-wheeler, and we shall be off at once.” He opened the

table-drawer as he spoke, and I noticed that he slipped his

revolver into his pocket. “Yes,” said he, in answer to my glance;

“I should say from what we have heard, that we are dealing with a

particularly dangerous gang.”

It was almost dark before we found ourselves in Pall Mall, at the

rooms of Mr. Melas. A gentleman had just called for him, and he

was gone.

“Can you tell me where?” asked Mycroft Holmes.

“I don’t know, sir,” answered the woman who had opened the door;

“I only know that he drove away with the gentleman in a

carriage.”

“Did the gentleman give a name?”

“No, sir.”

“He wasn’t a tall, handsome, dark young man?”

“Oh, no, sir. He was a little gentleman, with glasses, thin in

the face, but very pleasant in his ways, for he was laughing all

the time that he was talking.”

“Come along!” cried Sherlock Holmes, abruptly. “This grows

serious,” he observed, as we drove to Scotland Yard. “These men

have got hold of Melas again. He is a man of no physical courage,

as they are well aware from their experience the other night.

This villain was able to terrorise him the instant that he got

into his presence. No doubt they want his professional services,

but, having used him, they may be inclined to punish him for what

they will regard as his treachery.”

Our hope was that, by taking train, we might get to Beckenham as

soon or sooner than the carriage. On reaching Scotland Yard,

however, it was more than an hour before we could get Inspector

Gregson and comply with the legal formalities which would enable

us to enter the house. It was a quarter to ten before we reached

London Bridge, and half past before the four of us alighted on

the Beckenham platform. A drive of half a mile brought us to The

Myrtles—a large, dark house standing back from the road in its

own grounds. Here we dismissed our cab, and made our way up the

drive together.

“The windows are all dark,” remarked the inspector. “The house

seems deserted.”

“Our birds are flown and the nest empty,” said Holmes.

“Why do you say so?”

“A carriage heavily loaded with luggage has passed out during the

last hour.”

The inspector laughed. “I saw the wheel-tracks in the light of

the gate-lamp, but where does the luggage come in?”

“You may have observed the same wheel-tracks going the other way.

But the outward-bound ones were very much deeper—so much so that

we can say for a certainty that there was a very considerable

weight on the carriage.”

“You get a trifle beyond me there,” said the inspector, shrugging

his shoulder. “It will not be an easy door to force, but we will

try if we cannot make some one hear us.”

He hammered loudly at the knocker and pulled at the bell, but

without any success. Holmes had slipped away, but he came back in

a few minutes.

“I have a window open,” said he.

“It is a mercy that you are on the side of the force, and not

against it, Mr. Holmes,” remarked the inspector, as he noted the

clever way in which my friend had forced back the catch. “Well, I

think that under the circumstances we may enter without an

invitation.”

One after the other we made our way into a large apartment, which

was evidently that in which Mr. Melas had found himself. The

inspector had lit his lantern, and by its light we could see the

two doors, the curtain, the lamp, and the suit of Japanese mail

as he had described them. On the table lay two glasses, and empty

brandy-bottle, and the remains of a meal.

“What is that?” asked Holmes, suddenly.

We all stood still and listened. A low moaning sound was coming

from somewhere over our heads. Holmes rushed to the door and out

into the hall. The dismal noise came from upstairs. He dashed up,

the inspector and I at his heels, while his brother Mycroft

followed as quickly as his great bulk would permit.

Three doors faced up upon the second floor, and it was from the

central of these that the sinister sounds were issuing, sinking

sometimes into a dull mumble and rising again into a shrill

whine. It was locked, but the key had been left on the outside.

Holmes flung open the door and rushed in, but he was out again in

an instant, with his hand to his throat.

“It’s charcoal,” he cried. “Give it time. It will clear.”

Peering in, we could see that the only light in the room came

from a dull blue flame which flickered from a small brass tripod

in the centre. It threw a livid, unnatural circle upon the floor,

while in the shadows beyond we saw the vague loom of two figures

which crouched against the wall. From the open door there reeked

a horrible poisonous exhalation which set us gasping and

coughing. Holmes rushed to the top of the stairs to draw in the

fresh air, and then, dashing into the room, he threw up the

window and hurled the brazen tripod out into the garden.

“We can enter in a minute,” he gasped, darting out again. “Where

is a candle? I doubt if we could strike a match in that

atmosphere. Hold the light at the door and we shall get them out,

Mycroft, now!”

With a rush we got to the poisoned men and dragged them out into

the well-lit hall. Both of them were blue-lipped and insensible,

with swollen, congested faces and protruding eyes. Indeed, so

distorted were their features that, save for his black beard and

stout figure, we might have failed to recognise in one of them

the Greek interpreter who had parted from us only a few hours

before at the Diogenes Club. His hands and feet were securely

strapped together, and he bore over one eye the marks of a

violent blow. The other, who was secured in a similar fashion,

was a tall man in the last stage of emaciation, with several

strips of sticking-plaster arranged in a grotesque pattern over

his face. He had ceased to moan as we laid him down, and a glance

showed me that for him at least our aid had come too late. Mr.

Melas, however, still lived, and in less than an hour, with the

aid of ammonia and brandy I had the satisfaction of seeing him

open his eyes, and of knowing that my hand had drawn him back

from that dark valley in which all paths meet.

It was a simple story which he had to tell, and one which did but

confirm our own deductions. His visitor, on entering his rooms,

had drawn a life-preserver from his sleeve, and had so impressed

him with the fear of instant and inevitable death that he had

kidnapped him for the second time. Indeed, it was almost

mesmeric, the effect which this giggling ruffian had produced

upon the unfortunate linguist, for he could not speak of him save

with trembling hands and a blanched cheek. He had been taken

swiftly to Beckenham, and had acted as interpreter in a second

interview, even more dramatic than the first, in which the two

Englishmen had menaced their prisoner with instant death if he

did not comply with their demands. Finally, finding him proof

against every threat, they had hurled him back into his prison,

and after reproaching Melas with his treachery, which appeared

from the newspaper advertisement, they had stunned him with a

blow from a stick, and he remembered nothing more until he found

us bending over him.

And this was the singular case of the Grecian Interpreter, the

explanation of which is still involved in some mystery. We were

able to find out, by communicating with the gentleman who had

answered the advertisement, that the unfortunate young lady came

of a wealthy Grecian family, and that she had been on a visit to

some friends in England. While there she had met a young man

named Harold Latimer, who had acquired an ascendancy over her and

had eventually persuaded her to fly with him. Her friends,

shocked at the event, had contented themselves with informing her

brother at Athens, and had then washed their hands of the matter.

The brother, on his arrival in England, had imprudently placed

himself in the power of Latimer and of his associate, whose name

was Wilson Kemp—a man of the foulest antecedents. These two,

finding that through his ignorance of the language he was

helpless in their hands, had kept him a prisoner, and had

endeavoured by cruelty and starvation to make him sign away his

own and his sister’s property. They had kept him in the house

without the girl’s knowledge, and the plaster over the face had

been for the purpose of making recognition difficult in case she

should ever catch a glimpse of him. Her feminine perception,

however, had instantly seen through the disguise when, on the

occasion of the interpreter’s visit, she had seen him for the

first time. The poor girl, however, was herself a prisoner, for

there was no one about the house except the man who acted as

coachman, and his wife, both of whom were tools of the

conspirators. Finding that their secret was out, and that their

prisoner was not to be coerced, the two villains with the girl

had fled away at a few hours’ notice from the furnished house

which they had hired, having first, as they thought, taken

vengeance both upon the man who had defied and the one who had

betrayed them.

Months afterwards a curious newspaper cutting reached us from

Buda-Pesth. It told how two Englishmen who had been traveling

with a woman had met with a tragic end. They had each been

stabbed, it seems, and the Hungarian police were of opinion that

they had quarreled and had inflicted mortal injuries upon each

other. Holmes, however, is, I fancy, of a different way of

thinking, and holds to this day that, if one could find the

Grecian girl, one might learn how the wrongs of herself and her

brother came to be avenged.

XI.