he looked about the room with quiet face. it was the room he had been in before—the day he spoke to the halcyon club—the ladies had costly gowns and strange hats, who had listened so politely while he told them of athens and his beloved land. the room had been lighted then, with coloured lamps and globes—a kind of rosy radiance. now the daylight came in through the high windows and filtered down upon him over brown books and soft, leather-covered walls. there was no sound in the big room. it seemed shut off from the world and achilles sat very quiet, his dark face a little bent, his gaze fixed on the rug at his feet. he was thinking of the child—and of her face when she had lifted it to him out of the crowded street, that first day, and smiled at him... and of their long talks since. it was the child who understood. the strange ladies had smiled at him and talked to him and drank their tea and talked again... he could hear the soft, keen humming of their voices and the flitter of garments all about him as they moved. but the child had sat very still—only her face lifted, while he told her of athens and its beauty... and he had told her again—and again. she would never tire of it—as he could never tire. she was a child of light in the great new world... a child like himself—in the hurry of the noise. a sound came to him in the distant house—people talking—low voices that spoke and hurried on. the house was awake—quick questions ran through it—doors sounded and were still. achilles turned his face toward the opening into the long wide hall, and waited. through the vista there was a glimpse of the stairway and a figure passing up it—a short, square man who hurried. then silence again—more bells and running feet. but no one came to the library—and no one sought the dark figure seated there, waiting. strange foreign faces flashed themselves in the great mirror and out. the outer door opened and closed noiselessly to admit them—uncouth figures that passed swiftly up the stairway, glancing curiously about them—and dapper men who did not look up as they went. the house settled again to quiet, and the long afternoon, while achilles waited. the light from the high windows grew dusky under chairs and tables; it withdrew softly along the gleaming books and hovered in the air above them—a kind of halo—and the shadows crept up and closed about him. through the open door, a light appeared in the hall. a moving figure advanced to the library, and paused in the doorway, and came in. there was a minute’s fumbling at the electric button, and the soft lights came, by magic, everywhere in the room. the servant gave a quick glance about him, and started sternly—and came forward. then he recognised the man. it was the greek. but he looked at him sternly. the day had been full of suspicion and question—and the house was alive to it—“what do you want?” he said harshly.

“i wait,” said achilles.

“who told you to come?” demanded the man.

“i come. i wait,” said achilles.

the man disappeared. presently he returned. “you come with me,” he said. his look was less stern, but he raised his voice a little, as if speaking to a child, or a deaf man. “you come with me,” he repeated.

achilles followed with quick-gliding foot—along the corridor, through a great room—to a door. the man paused and lifted his hand and knocked. his back was tense, as if he held himself ready to spring.

a voice sounded and he turned the handle softly, and looked at achilles. then the door opened and the greek passed in and the man closed the door behind him.

a man seated at a table across the room looked up. for a minute the two men looked at each other—the one short and square and red; the other thin as a reed, with dark, clear eyes.

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 damned first!” said the man with slow emphasis. “but we shall find them—” his square, red jaw held the words, “and they shall pay—god! 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 hoarsely.

“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 passed 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.