THE COMPLETE SHERLOCK HOLMES MEMOIRS OF SHERLOCK HOLMES THE GREEK INTERPRETER

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$Title{MEMOIRS OF SHERLOCK HOLMES; The Greek Interpreter}

$Author{Doyle, Sir Arthur Conan}

$Subject{}

$Journal{}

$Volume{}

$Date{}

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                         THE COMPLETE SHERLOCK HOLMES

                          MEMOIRS OF SHERLOCK HOLMES

                            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

preeminent 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 panelling 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 gray, 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 anyone 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 sun-baked 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 on 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 someone

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 than 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 speculations.  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 travellers 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 interest, 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

glasswork 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 bona-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

mantelpiece, 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 enabled 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 conditions?' 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 sign 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 on 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 someone 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 gray, 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 someone

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 as 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 anyone

          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 once 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 terrorize 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 as

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

shoulders.  "It will not be an easy door to force, but we will try if we

cannot make someone 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, an 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 us 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

recognize 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 ascendency 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 perceptions, 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 travelling 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 quarrelled and had inflicted mortal injuries

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

thinking, and he 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.