Chapter IX: Part 9

“‘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. The Naval Treaty

The July which immediately succeeded my marriage was made
memorable by three cases of interest, in which I had the
privilege of being associated with Sherlock Holmes and of
studying his methods. I find them recorded in my notes under the
headings of “The Adventure of the Second Stain,” “The Adventure
of the Naval Treaty,” and “The Adventure of the Tired Captain.”
The first of these, however, deals with interest of such
importance and implicates so many of the first families in the
kingdom that for many years it will be impossible to make it
public. No case, however, in which Holmes was engaged has ever
illustrated the value of his analytical methods so clearly or has
impressed those who were associated with him so deeply. I still
retain an almost verbatim report of the interview in which he
demonstrated the true facts of the case to Monsieur Dubuque of
the Paris police, and Fritz von Waldbaum, the well-known
specialist of Dantzig, both of whom had wasted their energies
upon what proved to be side-issues. The new century will have
come, however, before the story can be safely told. Meanwhile I
pass on to the second on my list, which promised also at one time
to be of national importance, and was marked by several incidents
which give it a quite unique character.

During my school-days I had been intimately associated with a lad
named Percy Phelps, who was of much the same age as myself,
though he was two classes ahead of me. He was a very brilliant
boy, and carried away every prize which the school had to offer,
finished his exploits by winning a scholarship which sent him on
to continue his triumphant career at Cambridge. He was, I
remember, extremely well connected, and even when we were all
little boys together we knew that his mother’s brother was Lord
Holdhurst, the great conservative politician. This gaudy
relationship did him little good at school. On the contrary, it
seemed rather a piquant thing to us to chevy him about the
playground and hit him over the shins with a wicket. But it was
another thing when he came out into the world. I heard vaguely
that his abilities and the influences which he commanded had won
him a good position at the Foreign Office, and then he passed
completely out of my mind until the following letter recalled his
existence:

Briarbrae, Woking.
My dear Watson,—I have no doubt that you can remember
“Tadpole” Phelps, who was in the fifth form when you were in
the third. It is possible even that you may have heard that
through my uncle’s influence I obtained a good appointment at
the Foreign Office, and that I was in a situation of trust
and honour until a horrible misfortune came suddenly to blast
my career.
There is no use writing of the details of that dreadful
event. In the event of your acceding to my request it is
probable that I shall have to narrate them to you. I have
only just recovered from nine weeks of brain-fever, and am
still exceedingly weak. Do you think that you could bring
your friend Mr. Holmes down to see me? I should like to have
his opinion of the case, though the authorities assure me
that nothing more can be done. Do try to bring him down, and
as soon as possible. Every minute seems an hour while I live
in this state of horrible suspense. Assure him that if I have
not asked his advice sooner it was not because I did not
appreciate his talents, but because I have been off my head
ever since the blow fell. Now I am clear again, though I dare
not think of it too much for fear of a relapse. I am still so
weak that I have to write, as you see, by dictating. Do try
to bring him.

Your old schoolfellow,
Percy Phelps.

There was something that touched me as I read this letter,
something pitiable in the reiterated appeals to bring Holmes. So
moved was I that even had it been a difficult matter I should
have tried it, but of course I knew well that Holmes loved his
art, so that he was ever as ready to bring his aid as his client
could be to receive it. My wife agreed with me that not a moment
should be lost in laying the matter before him, and so within an
hour of breakfast-time I found myself back once more in the old
rooms in Baker Street.

Holmes was seated at his side-table clad in his dressing-gown,
and working hard over a chemical investigation. A large curved
retort was boiling furiously in the bluish flame of a Bunsen
burner, and the distilled drops were condensing into a two-litre
measure. My friend hardly glanced up as I entered, and I, seeing
that his investigation must be of importance, seated myself in an
armchair and waited. He dipped into this bottle or that, drawing
out a few drops of each with his glass pipette, and finally
brought a test-tube containing a solution over to the table. In
his right hand he held a slip of litmus-paper.

“You come at a crisis, Watson,” said he. “If this paper remains
blue, all is well. If it turns red, it means a man’s life.” He
dipped it into the test-tube and it flushed at once into a dull,
dirty crimson. “Hum! I thought as much!” he cried. “I will be at
your service in an instant, Watson. You will find tobacco in the
Persian slipper.” He turned to his desk and scribbled off several
telegrams, which were handed over to the page-boy. Then he threw
himself down into the chair opposite, and drew up his knees until
his fingers clasped round his long, thin shins.

“A very commonplace little murder,” said he. “You’ve got
something better, I fancy. You are the stormy petrel of crime,
Watson. What is it?”

I handed him the letter, which he read with the most concentrated
attention.

“It does not tell us very much, does it?” he remarked, as he
handed it back to me.

“Hardly anything.”

“And yet the writing is of interest.”

“But the writing is not his own.”

“Precisely. It is a woman’s.”

“A man’s surely,” I cried.

“No, a woman’s, and a woman of rare character. You see, at the
commencement of an investigation it is something to know that
your client is in close contact with some one who, for good or
evil, has an exceptional nature. My interest is already awakened
in the case. If you are ready we will start at once for Woking,
and see this diplomatist who is in such evil case, and the lady
to whom he dictates his letters.”

We were fortunate enough to catch an early train at Waterloo, and
in a little under an hour we found ourselves among the fir-woods
and the heather of Woking. Briarbrae proved to be a large
detached house standing in extensive grounds within a few
minutes’ walk of the station. On sending in our cards we were
shown into an elegantly appointed drawing-room, where we were
joined in a few minutes by a rather stout man who received us
with much hospitality. His age may have been nearer forty than
thirty, but his cheeks were so ruddy and his eyes so merry that
he still conveyed the impression of a plump and mischievous boy.

“I am so glad that you have come,” said he, shaking our hands
with effusion. “Percy has been inquiring for you all morning. Ah,
poor old chap, he clings to any straw! His father and his mother
asked me to see you, for the mere mention of the subject is very
painful to them.”

“We have had no details yet,” observed Holmes. “I perceive that
you are not yourself a member of the family.”

Our acquaintance looked surprised, and then, glancing down, he
began to laugh.

“Of course you saw the ‘J.H.’ monogram on my locket,” said he.
“For a moment I thought you had done something clever. Joseph
Harrison is my name, and as Percy is to marry my sister Annie I
shall at least be a relation by marriage. You will find my sister
in his room, for she has nursed him hand-and-foot this two months
back. Perhaps we’d better go in at once, for I know how impatient
he is.”

The chamber in which we were shown was on the same floor as the
drawing-room. It was furnished partly as a sitting and partly as
a bedroom, with flowers arranged daintily in every nook and
corner. A young man, very pale and worn, was lying upon a sofa
near the open window, through which came the rich scent of the
garden and the balmy summer air. A woman was sitting beside him,
who rose as we entered.

“Shall I leave, Percy?” she asked.

He clutched her hand to detain her. “How are you, Watson?” said
he, cordially. “I should never have known you under that
moustache, and I daresay you would not be prepared to swear to
me. This I presume is your celebrated friend, Mr. Sherlock
Holmes?”

I introduced him in a few words, and we both sat down. The stout
young man had left us, but his sister still remained with her
hand in that of the invalid. She was a striking-looking woman, a
little short and thick for symmetry, but with a beautiful olive
complexion, large, dark, Italian eyes, and a wealth of deep black
hair. Her rich tints made the white face of her companion the
more worn and haggard by the contrast.

“I won’t waste your time,” said he, raising himself upon the
sofa. “I’ll plunge into the matter without further preamble. I
was a happy and successful man, Mr. Holmes, and on the eve of
being married, when a sudden and dreadful misfortune wrecked all
my prospects in life.

“I was, as Watson may have told you, in the Foreign Office, and
through the influences of my uncle, Lord Holdhurst, I rose
rapidly to a responsible position. When my uncle became foreign
minister in this administration he gave me several missions of
trust, and as I always brought them to a successful conclusion,
he came at last to have the utmost confidence in my ability and
tact.

“Nearly ten weeks ago—to be more accurate, on the 23rd of May—he
called me into his private room, and, after complimenting me on
the good work which I had done, he informed me that he had a new
commission of trust for me to execute.

“‘This,’ said he, taking a grey roll of paper from his bureau,
‘is the original of that secret treaty between England and Italy
of which, I regret to say, some rumours have already got into the
public press. It is of enormous importance that nothing further
should leak out. The French or the Russian embassy would pay an
immense sum to learn the contents of these papers. They should
not leave my bureau were it not that it is absolutely necessary
to have them copied. You have a desk in your office?’

“‘Yes, sir.’

“‘Then take the treaty and lock it up there. I shall give
directions that you may remain behind when the others go, so that
you may copy it at your leisure without fear of being overlooked.
When you have finished, relock both the original and the draft in
the desk, and hand them over to me personally to-morrow morning.’

“I took the papers and—”

“Excuse me an instant,” said Holmes. “Were you alone during this
conversation?”

“Absolutely.”

“In a large room?”

“Thirty feet each way.”

“In the centre?”

“Yes, about it.”

“And speaking low?”

“My uncle’s voice is always remarkably low. I hardly spoke at
all.”

“Thank you,” said Holmes, shutting his eyes; “pray go on.”

“I did exactly what he indicated, and waited until the other
clerks had departed. One of them in my room, Charles Gorot, had
some arrears of work to make up, so I left him there and went out
to dine. When I returned he was gone. I was anxious to hurry my
work, for I knew that Joseph—the Mr. Harrison whom you saw just
now—was in town, and that he would travel down to Woking by the
eleven o’clock train, and I wanted if possible to catch it.

“When I came to examine the treaty I saw at once that it was of
such importance that my uncle had been guilty of no exaggeration
in what he had said. Without going into details, I may say that
it defined the position of Great Britain towards the Triple
Alliance, and fore-shadowed the policy which this country would
pursue in the event of the French fleet gaining a complete
ascendancy over that of Italy in the Mediterranean. The questions
treated in it were purely naval. At the end were the signatures
of the high dignitaries who had signed it. I glanced my eyes over
it, and then settled down to my task of copying.

“It was a long document, written in the French language, and
containing twenty-six separate articles. I copied as quickly as I
could, but at nine o’clock I had only done nine articles, and it
seemed hopeless for me to attempt to catch my train. I was
feeling drowsy and stupid, partly from my dinner and also from
the effects of a long day’s work. A cup of coffee would clear my
brain. A commissionnaire remains all night in a little lodge at
the foot of the stairs, and is in the habit of making coffee at
his spirit-lamp for any of the officials who may be working over
time. I rang the bell, therefore, to summon him.

“To my surprise, it was a woman who answered the summons, a
large, coarse-faced, elderly woman, in an apron. She explained
that she was the commissionnaire’s wife, who did the charing, and
I gave her the order for the coffee.

“I wrote two more articles and then, feeling more drowsy than
ever, I rose and walked up and down the room to stretch my legs.
My coffee had not yet come, and I wondered what the cause of the
delay could be. Opening the door, I started down the corridor to
find out. There was a straight passage, dimly lighted, which led
from the room in which I had been working, and was the only exit
from it. It ended in a curving staircase, with the
commissionnaire’s lodge in the passage at the bottom. Half-way
down this staircase is a small landing, with another passage
running into it at right angles. This second one leads by means
of a second small stair to a side door, used by servants, and
also as a short cut by clerks when coming from Charles Street.
Here is a rough chart of the place.”

rough chart

“Thank you. I think that I quite follow you,” said Sherlock
Holmes.

“It is of the utmost importance that you should notice this
point. I went down the stairs and into the hall, where I found
the commissionnaire fast asleep in his box, with the kettle
boiling furiously upon the spirit-lamp. I took off the kettle and
blew out the lamp, for the water was spurting over the floor.
Then I put out my hand and was about to shake the man, who was
still sleeping soundly, when a bell over his head rang loudly,
and he woke with a start.

“‘Mr. Phelps, sir!’ said he, looking at me in bewilderment.

“‘I came down to see if my coffee was ready.’

“‘I was boiling the kettle when I fell asleep, sir.’ He looked at
me and then up at the still quivering bell with an ever-growing
astonishment upon his face.

“‘If you was here, sir, then who rang the bell?’ he asked.

“‘The bell!’ I cried. ‘What bell is it?’

“‘It’s the bell of the room you were working in.’

“A cold hand seemed to close round my heart. Some one, then, was
in that room where my precious treaty lay upon the table. I ran
frantically up the stairs and along the passage. There was no one
in the corridors, Mr. Holmes. There was no one in the room. All
was exactly as I left it, save only that the papers which had
been committed to my care had been taken from the desk on which
they lay. The copy was there, and the original was gone.”

Holmes sat up in his chair and rubbed his hands. I could see that
the problem was entirely to his heart. “Pray, what did you do
then?” he murmured.

“I recognised in an instant that the thief must have come up the
stairs from the side door. Of course I must have met him if he
had come the other way.”

“You were satisfied that he could not have been concealed in the
room all the time, or in the corridor which you have just
described as dimly lighted?”

“It is absolutely impossible. A rat could not conceal himself
either in the room or the corridor. There is no cover at all.”

“Thank you. Pray proceed.”

“The commissionnaire, seeing by my pale face that something was
to be feared, had followed me upstairs. Now we both rushed along
the corridor and down the steep steps which led to Charles
Street. The door at the bottom was closed, but unlocked. We flung
it open and rushed out. I can distinctly remember that as we did
so there came three chimes from a neighbouring clock. It was
quarter to ten.”

“That is of enormous importance,” said Holmes, making a note upon
his shirt-cuff.

“The night was very dark, and a thin, warm rain was falling.
There was no one in Charles Street, but a great traffic was going
on, as usual, in Whitehall, at the extremity. We rushed along the
pavement, bare-headed as we were, and at the far corner we found
a policeman standing.

“‘A robbery has been committed,’ I gasped. ‘A document of immense
value has been stolen from the Foreign Office. Has any one passed
this way?’

“‘I have been standing here for a quarter of an hour, sir,’ said
he; ‘only one person has passed during that time—a woman, tall
and elderly, with a Paisley shawl.’

“‘Ah, that is only my wife,’ cried the commissionnaire; ‘has no
one else passed?’

“‘No one.’

“‘Then it must be the other way that the thief took,’ cried the
fellow, tugging at my sleeve.

“‘But I was not satisfied, and the attempts which he made to draw
me away increased my suspicions.

“‘Which way did the woman go?’ I cried.

“‘I don’t know, sir. I noticed her pass, but I had no special
reason for watching her. She seemed to be in a hurry.’

“‘How long ago was it?’

“‘Oh, not very many minutes.’

“‘Within the last five?’

“‘Well, it could not be more than five.’

“‘You’re only wasting your time, sir, and every minute now is of
importance,’ cried the commissionnaire; ‘take my word for it that
my old woman has nothing to do with it, and come down to the
other end of the street. Well, if you won’t, I will.’ And with
that he rushed off in the other direction.

“But I was after him in an instant and caught him by the sleeve.

“‘Where do you live?’ said I.

“‘16 Ivy Lane, Brixton,’ he answered. ‘But don’t let yourself be
drawn away upon a false scent, Mr. Phelps. Come to the other end
of the street and let us see if we can hear of anything.’

“Nothing was to be lost by following his advice. With the
policeman we both hurried down, but only to find the street full
of traffic, many people coming and going, but all only too eager
to get to a place of safety upon so wet a night. There was no
lounger who could tell us who had passed.

“Then we returned to the office, and searched the stairs and the
passage without result. The corridor which led to the room was
laid down with a kind of creamy linoleum which shows an
impression very easily. We examined it very carefully, but found
no outline of any footmark.”

“Had it been raining all evening?”

“Since about seven.”

“How is it, then, that the woman who came into the room about
nine left no traces with her muddy boots?”

“I am glad you raised the point. It occurred to me at the time.
The charwomen are in the habit of taking off their boots at the
commissionnaire’s office, and putting on list slippers.”

“That is very clear. There were no marks, then, though the night
was a wet one? The chain of events is certainly one of
extraordinary interest. What did you do next?

“We examined the room also. There is no possibility of a secret
door, and the windows are quite thirty feet from the ground. Both
of them were fastened on the inside. The carpet prevents any
possibility of a trap-door, and the ceiling is of the ordinary
whitewashed kind. I will pledge my life that whoever stole my
papers could only have come through the door.”

“How about the fireplace?”

“They use none. There is a stove. The bell-rope hangs from the
wire just to the right of my desk. Whoever rang it must have come
right up to the desk to do it. But why should any criminal wish
to ring the bell? It is a most insoluble mystery.”

“Certainly the incident was unusual. What were your next steps?
You examined the room, I presume, to see if the intruder had left
any traces—any cigar-end or dropped glove or hairpin or other
trifle?”

“There was nothing of the sort.”

“No smell?”

“Well, we never thought of that.”

“Ah, a scent of tobacco would have been worth a great deal to us
in such an investigation.”

“I never smoke myself, so I think I should have observed it if
there had been any smell of tobacco. There was absolutely no clue
of any kind. The only tangible fact was that the
commissionnaire’s wife—Mrs. Tangey was the name—had hurried out
of the place. He could give no explanation save that it was about
the time when the woman always went home. The policeman and I
agreed that our best plan would be to seize the woman before she
could get rid of the papers, presuming that she had them.

“The alarm had reached Scotland Yard by this time, and Mr.
Forbes, the detective, came round at once and took up the case
with a great deal of energy. We hired a hansom, and in half an
hour we were at the address which had been given to us. A young
woman opened the door, who proved to be Mrs. Tangey’s eldest
daughter. Her mother had not come back yet, and we were shown
into the front room to wait.

“About ten minutes later a knock came at the door, and here we
made the one serious mistake for which I blame myself. Instead of
opening the door ourselves, we allowed the girl to do so. We
heard her say, ‘Mother, there are two men in the house waiting to
see you,’ and an instant afterwards we heard the patter of feet
rushing down the passage. Forbes flung open the door, and we both
ran into the back room or kitchen, but the woman had got there
before us. She stared at us with defiant eyes, and then, suddenly
recognising me, an expression of absolute astonishment came over
her face.

“‘Why, if it isn’t Mr. Phelps, of the office!’ she cried.

“‘Come, come, who did you think we were when you ran away from
us?’ asked my companion.

“‘I thought you were the brokers,’ said she, ‘we have had some
trouble with a tradesman.’

“‘That’s not quite good enough,’ answered Forbes. ‘We have reason
to believe that you have taken a paper of importance from the
Foreign Office, and that you ran in here to dispose of it. You
must come back with us to Scotland Yard to be searched.’

“It was in vain that she protested and resisted. A four-wheeler
was brought, and we all three drove back in it. We had first made
an examination of the kitchen, and especially of the kitchen
fire, to see whether she might have made away with the papers
during the instant that she was alone. There were no signs,
however, of any ashes or scraps. When we reached Scotland Yard
she was handed over at once to the female searcher. I waited in
an agony of suspense until she came back with her report. There
were no signs of the papers.

“Then for the first time the horror of my situation came in its
full force. Hitherto I had been acting, and action had numbed
thought. I had been so confident of regaining the treaty at once
that I had not dared to think of what would be the consequence if
I failed to do so. But now there was nothing more to be done, and
I had leisure to realize my position. It was horrible. Watson
there would tell you that I was a nervous, sensitive boy at
school. It is my nature. I thought of my uncle and of his
colleagues in the Cabinet, of the shame which I had brought upon
him, upon myself, upon every one connected with me. What though I
was the victim of an extraordinary accident? No allowance is made
for accidents where diplomatic interests are at stake. I was
ruined, shamefully, hopelessly ruined. I don’t know what I did. I
fancy I must have made a scene. I have a dim recollection of a
group of officials who crowded round me, endeavouring to soothe
me. One of them drove down with me to Waterloo, and saw me into
the Woking train. I believe that he would have come all the way
had it not been that Dr. Ferrier, who lives near me, was going
down by that very train. The doctor most kindly took charge of
me, and it was well he did so, for I had a fit in the station,
and before we reached home I was practically a raving maniac.

“You can imagine the state of things here when they were roused
from their beds by the doctor’s ringing and found me in this
condition. Poor Annie here and my mother were broken-hearted. Dr.
Ferrier had just heard enough from the detective at the station
to be able to give an idea of what had happened, and his story
did not mend matters. It was evident to all that I was in for a
long illness, so Joseph was bundled out of this cheery bedroom,
and it was turned into a sick-room for me. Here I have lain, Mr.
Holmes, for over nine weeks, unconscious, and raving with
brain-fever. If it had not been for Miss Harrison here and for
the doctor’s care I should not be speaking to you now. She has
nursed me by day and a hired nurse has looked after me by night,
for in my mad fits I was capable of anything. Slowly my reason
has cleared, but it is only during the last three days that my
memory has quite returned. Sometimes I wish that it never had.
The first thing that I did was to wire to Mr. Forbes, who had the
case in hand. He came out, and assures me that, though everything
has been done, no trace of a clue has been discovered. The
commissionnaire and his wife have been examined in every way
without any light being thrown upon the matter. The suspicions of
the police then rested upon young Gorot, who, as you may
remember, stayed over time in the office that night. His
remaining behind and his French name were really the only two
points which could suggest suspicion; but, as a matter of fact, I
did not begin work until he had gone, and his people are of
Huguenot extraction, but as English in sympathy and tradition as
you and I are. Nothing was found to implicate him in any way, and
there the matter dropped. I turn to you, Mr. Holmes, as
absolutely my last hope. If you fail me, then my honour as well
as my position are forever forfeited.”