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Page 104
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.
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