The short man spoke first. "What do you know about this?" His hand pressed a heap of papers upon the desk before him and his eyes searched the dark face.

Achilles's glance rested on the papers--then it lifted itself.

"Your name is Achilles?" said the other sharply.

"Achilles Alexandrakis--yes." The Greek bowed.

"I know--she called you Mr. Achilles," said the man.

A shadow rested on the two faces, looking at each other.

"She is lost," said the father. He said it under his breath, as if denying it.

"I find her," said Achilles quietly.

The man leaned forward--something like a sneer on his face. "She is stolen, I tell you--and the rascals have got at their work quick!" He struck the pile of papers on the desk. "They will give her up for ten thousand dollars--to-night." He glanced at the clock on the wall, ticking its minutes, hurrying to six o'clock.

The dark eyes had followed the glance; they came back to the man's face--"You pay that--ten thousand dollar?" said Achilles.

"I shall be d.a.m.ned first!" said the man with slow emphasis. "But we shall find them--" His square, red jaw held the words, "and _they_ shall pay--G.o.d! They shall pay!" The room rang to the word. It was a small bare room--only a table and two chairs, the clock on the wall and a desk across the room. "Sit down," said Philip Harris. He motioned to the chair before him.

But Achilles did not take it, he rested a hand on the back, looking down at him. "I glad--you not pay," he said.

The other lifted his eyebrows. "I shall pay the man that finds her--the man that brings her back! You understand that?" His bright, little glance had keen scorn.

But the face opposite him did not change. "I find her," said Achilles again.

"Then you get the ten thousand," said the man. He shifted a little in his chair. They were all alike--these foreigners--money was what they wanted--and plenty of it. The sneer on his face deepened abruptly.

Achilles's glance was on the clock. "It makes bad--to pay that money,"

he said. "When you pay--more child stole--to-morrow, more child stole--more money--" His dark hand lifted itself out over the houses of the great city--and all the sleepy children making ready for bed.

The other nodded. His round, soft paunch pressed against the table and his quick eyes were on Achilles's face. His great finger leaped out and shook itself and lay on the table. "I--will--not--give--one cent!" he said hoa.r.s.ely.

"You be good man," said Achilles solemnly.

"I will not be bullied by them--and I will not be a fool!" He lifted his eyes to the clock--and a look pa.s.sed in his face--a little whirring chime and the clock was still.

In the silence, the telephone rang sharply. His hand leaped out--and waited--and his eye sought Achilles--and gathered itself, and he lifted the dark, burring Thing to his ear.

XII

THE TELEPHONE SPEAKS

Slowly the look on his face grew to something hard and round and bright.

His lips tightened--"is that all?--Good-bye!" His voice sounded in the tube and was gone, and he hung up the receiver. "They make it twenty thousand--for one hour," he said drily.

Achilles bent forward, his face on fire, his finger pointing to the Thing.

"They are right there!" said the man. He gave a short laugh--"Can't trace them that way--we have tried--They've tapped a wire. Central is after them. But they won't get 'em that way. Sit down and I will talk to you." He motioned again to the chair and the Greek seated himself, bending forward a little to catch the murmur and half-incoherent jerks that the man spoke.

Now and then the Greek nodded, or his dark face lighted; and once or twice he spoke. But for the most part it was a rapid monologue, told in breathless words.

The great Philip Harris had no hope that the ignorant man sitting before him could help him. But there was a curious relief in talking to him; and as he talked, he found the story shaping itself in his mind--things related fell into place, and things apart came suddenly together. The story ran back for years--there had been earlier attempts, but the child had been guarded with strictest care; and lately they had come to feel secure. They had thought the band was broken up. The blow had fallen out of a clear sky. They had not the slightest clue--all day the detectives had gathered the great city in their hands--and sifted it through careful fingers. A dozen men had been arrested, but there was no clue.

The New York men were on the way; they would arrive in the morning, and meantime the great man sat in his bare room, helpless. He looked into the dark eyes opposite him and found a curious comfort there. "The child knew you," he said.

"Yes--she know me. We love," said Achilles simply.

The other smiled a little. It would not have occurred to _him_ to say that Betty loved him. He was not sure that she did--as he thought of it.

She had always the quick smile for him--and for everyone. But there had been no time for foolishness between him and Betty. He had hardly known her for the last year or two. He shifted a little in his place, shading his eyes from the light, and looked at the Greek.

The Greek rose, and stood before him. "I go now," he said.

Philip Harris made no reply. He was thinking, behind his hand; and his mind, wrenched from its stockyards and its corners and deals, seemed to be groping toward a point of light that glimmered somewhere--mistily. He could not focus it. The darkness tricked him, but somehow, vaguely, the Greek held a clue. He had known the child. "Don't go," said Philip Harris, looking up at last.

"I find her," said Achilles.

Philip Harris shook his head. "You cannot find her." He said it bitterly. "But you can tell me--sit down." He leaned forward. "Now, tell me--everything--you know--about her."

The face of Achilles lighted. "She was a nice child," he said blithely.

The man smiled. "Yes--go on."

So the voice of Achilles was loosened and he told of Betty Harris--to her father sitting absorbed and silent. The delight of her walk, her little hands, the very tones of her voice were in his words.

And the big man listened with intent face. Once the telephone rang and he stopped to take down something. "No clue," he said, "go on." And Achilles's voice took up the story again.

His hands reached out in the words, quick gestures made a halo about them, lips and smiles spoke, and ran the words to a laugh that made the child's presence in the room.

The father listened dumbly. Then silence fell in the room and the clock ticked.

And while the two men sat in silence, something came between them and knit them. And when Achilles rose to go, the great man held out his hand, simply. "You have helped me," he said.

"I help--yes--" said Achilles. Then he turned his head. A door across the room had opened and a woman stood in it--looking at them.

XIII

EVERYONE MUST PAY

Achilles saw her, and moved forward swiftly. But she ignored him--her eyes were on the short, square man seated at the table, and she came to him, bending close. "You must pay, Phil," she said. The words held themselves in her reddened eyes, and her fingers picked a little at the lace on her dress... then they trembled and reached out to him.

"You _must_ pay!" she said hoa.r.s.ely.