                              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 arm-chair,
     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 solution, 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 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 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 neighbor 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 bona-fide
     country was more than I could possibly venture to say.

     "There was a colored 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 armor 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 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
     door-way 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 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 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 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 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
     arm-chair.

     "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
     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 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 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 endeavored 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.
