Спогади Шерлока Холмса
The Greek Interpreter
Sometimestherattleofthestonestoldofapavedcauseway,andatothersoursmooth,silentcoursesuggestedasphalt;but,savebythisvariationinsound,therewasnothingatallwhichcouldintheremotestwayhelpmetoformaguessastowherewewere.Thepaperovereachwindowwasimpenetrabletolight,andabluecurtainwasdrawnacrosstheglassworkinfront.Itwasaquarter-pastsevenwhenweleftPallMall,andmywatchshowedmethatitwastenminutestoninewhenweatlastcametoastandstill.Mycompanionletdownthewindow,andIcaughtaglimpseofalow,archeddoorwaywithalampburningaboveit.AsIwashurriedfromthecarriageitswungopen,andIfoundmyselfinsidethehouse,withavagueimpressionofalawnandtreesoneachsideofmeasIentered.Whetherthesewereprivategrounds,however,orbona-fidecountrywasmorethanIcouldpossiblyventuretosay.
"Therewasacolouredgas-lampinsidewhichwasturnedsolowthatIcouldseelittlesavethatthehallwasofsomesizeandhungwithpictures.InthedimlightIcouldmakeoutthatthepersonwhohadopenedthedoorwasasmall,mean-looking,middle-agedmanwithroundedshoulders.Asheturnedtowardsustheglintofthelightshowedmethathewaswearingglasses.
"‘IsthisMr.Melas,Harold?"saidhe.
"‘Yes.’
"‘Welldone,welldone!Noill-will,Mr.Melas,Ihope,butwecouldnotgetonwithoutyou.
