Our hope was that, by taking train, we might get to Beckenhamas soon or sooner than the carriage. On reaching Scotland Yard,however, it was more than an hour before we could get InspectorGregson and comply with the legal formalities which would enableus to enter the house. It was a quarter to ten before we reachedLondon Bridge, and half past before the four of us alighted onthe Beckenham platform. A drive of half a mile brought us to TheMyrtles—a large, dark house standing back from the road in itsown grounds. Here we dismissed our cab, and made our way upthe drive together.
“The windows are all dark,” remarked the inspector. “The houseseems 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 duringthe last hour.”
The inspector laughed. “I saw the wheel-tracks in the light ofthe gate-lamp, but where does the luggage come in?”
“You may have observed the same wheel-tracks going the otherway. But the outward-bound ones were very much deeper—somuch so that we can say for a certainty that there was a veryconsiderable weight on the carriage.”
“You get a trifle beyond me there,” said the inspector, shrugginghis shoulder. “It will not be an easy door to force, but we will try ifwe cannot make some one hear us.”
804 The Complete Sherlock Holmes
He hammered loudly at the knocker and pulled at the bell, butwithout any success. Holmes had slipped away, but he came backin 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 againstit, Mr. Holmes,” remarked the inspector, as he noted the clever wayin which my friend had forced back the catch. “Well, I think thatunder 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 thetwo doors, the curtain, the lamp, and the suit of Japanese mail ashe had described them. On the table lay two glasses, and emptybrandy-bottle, and the remains of a meal.
“What is that?” asked Holmes, suddenly.
We all stood still and listened. A low moaning sound was comingfrom somewhere over our heads. Holmes rushed to the door andout into the hall. The dismal noise came from upstairs. He dashedup, the inspector and I at his heels, while his brother Mycroftfollowed as quickly as his great bulk would permit.
Three doors faced up upon the second floor, and it was fromthe central of these that the sinister sounds were issuing, sinkingsometimes into a dull mumble and rising again into a shrill whine.
was locked, but the key had been left on the outside. Holmesflung open the door and rushed in, but he was out again in aninstant, 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 camefrom a dull blue flame which flickered from a small brass tripodin the centre. It threw a livid, unnatural circle upon the floor,while in the shadows beyond we saw the vague loom of two figureswhich crouched against the wall. From the open door there reekedhorrible poisonous exhalation which set us gasping and coughing.
Holmes rushed to the top of the stairs to draw in the fresh air, andthen, dashing into the room, he threw up the window and hurledthe brazen tripod out into the garden.
“We can enter in a minute,” he gasped, darting out again. “Wherea 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 outinto the well-lit hall. Both of them were blue-lipped and insensible,with swollen, congested faces and protruding eyes. Indeed, sodistorted were their features that, save for his black beard andstout figure, we might have failed to recognize in one of them theMemoirs of Sherlock Holmes 805
Greek interpreter who had parted from us only a few hours beforeat the Diogenes Club. His hands and feet were securely strappedtogether, and he bore over one eye the marks of a violent blow. Theother, who was secured in a similar fashion, was a tall man in the laststage of emaciation, with several strips of sticking-plaster arrangedin a grotesque pattern over his face. He had ceased to moan as welaid him down, and a glance showed me that for him at least our aidhad come too late. Mr. Melas, however, still lived, and in less than anhour, with the aid of ammonia and brandy I had the satisfaction ofseeing him open his eyes, and of knowing that my hand had drawnhim back from that dark valley in which all paths meet.
It was a simple story which he had to tell, and one which didbut confirm our own deductions. His visitor, on entering hisrooms, had drawn a life-preserver from his sleeve, and had soimpressed him with the fear of instant and inevitable death thathe had kidnapped him for the second time. Indeed, it was almostmesmeric, the effect which this giggling ruffian had producedupon the unfortunate linguist, for he could not speak of him savewith trembling hands and a blanched cheek. He had been takenswiftly to Beckenham, and had acted as interpreter in a secondinterview, even more dramatic than the first, in which the twoEnglishmen had menaced their prisoner with instant death if hedid not comply with their demands. Finally, finding him proofagainst every threat, they had hurled him back into his prison, andafter reproaching Melas with his treachery, which appeared fromthe newspaper advertisement, they had stunned him with a blowfrom a stick, and he remembered nothing more until he found usbending over him.