ncy 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 arm-chair.

"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. "Sen