Music Welcome to this newscast, the podcast is on to help you fall asleep. Find us at snoocast.com and if you enjoy our show, please share us with a friend. This episode is brought to you by a Just Providence. If you'd like to receive an email once a week with upcoming sleep stories and other news, subscribe to the snooze letter at snoozecast.com. Scroll to the bottom of the page and you'll find the subscribe option. Tonight, we'll read the first half to the adventure of the Greek interpreter, written by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. It is one of twelve stories in the cycle collected as the memoirs of Sherlock Holmes. Out of all 56 Sherlock stories, Doyle ranked the Greek interpreter, 17th in a list of his 19 favorites. Let's get cozy.

Close your eyes.

Relax your body.

And in the softness of your head.

Now, take a few deep breaths. During my long and intimate acquaintance with Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I had never heard him refer to his relations, and hardly ever to his own early life. This reticence upon his part had increased the somewhat inhuman effect which he produced upon me, until sometimes I found myself regarding him as an isolated phenomenon, a brain without a heart, as deficient in human sympathy as he was preeminent in intelligence. His aversion to women and his disinclination to form new friendships were both typical of his unemotional character, but not more so than his complete suppression of every reference to his own people. I had come to believe he was an orphan with no relatives living. On one day, to my very great surprise, he began to talk to me about his brother. It was after T on a summer evening, and the conversation which had roamed in a spasmotic fashion from golf clubs to the causes of the change in the obliquity of the ecliptic came round at last to the question of adivism and the hereditary aptitudes. A 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 nonetheless, my turn that way is in my veins, and may have come with my grandmother. Who was the sister of Verne, the French artist? in the blood is liable to take the strangest forms? But how do you know that is hereditary? Because my brother, my craft, 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 lojition all things should be seen exactly as they are, and to underestimate oneself is as much a departure from truth as to exaggerate one's own powers. When I say therefore that my craft 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 come he is unknown? Oh, he is very well known in his own circle. Where then? Well, in the Diogenous 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 Diogeny's Club is the Queerest Club in London, and my craft, 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 is it that my craft does not use his powers for detective work? He is incapable of it. But I thought you said, I said that he was my superior in observation and deduction. If the art of the detective began and ended in reasoning from an armchair, my brother would be the greatest criminal agent that ever lived. But he has no ambition and no energy. He will not even go out of his way to verify his own solutions, and would rather be considered wrong than take the trouble to prove himself right. Again and again I have taken a problem to him, and have received an explanation which has afterwards proved to be the correct one, and yet he was absolutely incapable of working out the practical points which must be gone into before a case could be laid before a judge or jury. It is not as profession then, by no means. What is to me a means of livelihood is to him the nearest hobby of a dilatant. He has an extraordinary faculty for figures and audits the books in some of the government departments.

My craft lodges in Paul Mall and he walks around the corner into White Hall every morning and back every evening.

From years in to years in, he takes no other exercise and is seen nowhere else,

except only in the Diogeny's 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 Shines, some from Miss Anthropy, 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 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 strangers room. No talking is under any circumstances allowed. And three offenses, 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 founded a very soothing atmosphere. We had reached Paul Mall as we talked, and were walking down it from the St. James Inn. 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 a 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 Paul Moe, and then, leaving me for a minute, he came back with a companion whom I knew could only be his brother. my craft homes 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. eyes, which were light, watery grey, 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 become 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 would sure of it from the first. The two sat down together in the bow window of the club. To anyone who wishes to study mankind, this is the spot," said my craft. Look at these magnificent types. Look at these two men who are coming towards us, for example. The billured 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 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 Art, I fancy, said Sherlock, and a widower. But with a child, children, my dear boy, children, come, said I, laughing. This is a little too much. Surely, answered Holmes, it is not hard to say that a man with that bearing, expression of authority, and sun-baked skin is a soldier, is more than a private, and is not long from India. That he has not left the service long as 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 morning shows that he has lost someone very dear. The fact that he is doing his own shopping looks as though it were his wife. He has been buying things for children you perceive. is a rattle, which shows that one of them is very young. The wife probably died in child bed. The fact that he has a picture book under his arm shows that there is another child to be thought of. I began to understand what my friend meant when he said that his brother possessed even keener faculties than he did himself. He glanced across me and smiled. My craft took snuff from a tortoise shell box and brushed away the wandering grains from his coat front, with a large, red silk hankerchief. "'By the way, Sherlock,' said he. "'I have had something quite after your own heart, a most singular problem. Submit it to my judgment. I really had not the energy to follow it up safe 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 Minecraft, I should be delighted. The brother scribbled a note upon a leaf of his pocketbook and ringing the bell he handed it to the waiter. I have asked Mr. Melos 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. Melos 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 foreigners 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 cold black hair proclaimed his southern origin, though his accent was that of an 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 it has become of my poor man with the sticking plaster upon his face. I am all attention, central outcomes. This is Wednesday evening," said Mr. Melos. While 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 Greek by birth and with a grish in 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 room, 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, thoughid, were of rich quality. Mr. Latimer ceded himself opposite to me, and we started off through charring cross, and up the shaftsbury avenue. We had come out upon Oxford Street, and I had ventured summer marks 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 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. Melos," 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 something of a liberty no doubt, said he, but we'll make it up to you. I must warn you, however, that if at any time tonight 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. saved 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 Baal Maul, 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 of a low arched doorway with a lamp burning above it. As I was hurried from the carriage its 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 a bonafide 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. Mellas, Harold? Said he, yes, well done, well done. No, it misdi, my Lord, 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 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 have turned down. The chamber was certainly large, and the way in which my feet sank into the carpet as I stepped across it, told me of its richness. I caught glimpses of velvet chairs, a high white marble mantelpiece, and what seemed to be a suit of Japanese armor at one side of it.

There was a chair just under the lamp, and the elderly man motioned that I stood 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 at his appearance. He was pale, 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 crisscrossed with sticking plaster,

and that one large pad of it was fastened over his mouth. Have you the slate herald? Cride the older man as this strange being fell rather than sat down into a chair. Hara, his hands loose.

Now then, give him the pencil.

You are to ask the questions, Mr. Melaus,

and he will write the answers.

...