Chapter 4

But Miss Stone did not look at him. “Drive to the Greek’s. You know--where she went before.” She would not give herself time to think--sitting a little forward on the seat--of course the child had gone to the Greek--to Mr. Achilles.... They should find her in a minute. There was nothing else to think about--no shadowy fear that had leaped to meet the look in James’s face when it turned to her. The child would be there--

The carriage drew up before the shop, with its glowing lines of fruit under the striped awning, and Miss Stone had descended before the wheel scraped the curb, her glance searching the door and the dim room beyond. She halted on the threshold, peering in.

A man came from the rear of the room, his hands outstretched to serve her. The dark, clear face, with its Greek lines, and the eyes that looked out at her held a welcome. “You do me honour,” he said. “I hope Madame is well--and the little Lady--?” Then he stopped. Something in Miss Stone’s face held him--and his hand groped a little, reaching toward her--“You--tell me--” he said.

But she did not speak, and the look in her face grew very still.

He turned sharply--calling into the shop behind him, and a boy came running, his eyes flashing a quick laugh, his teeth glinting.

“I go,” said the man, with quick gesture--“You keep shop--I go.” He had taken off his white apron and seized a hat. He touched the woman on the shoulder. “Come,” he said.

She looked at him with dazed glance and put her hand to her head. “I cannot think,” she said slowly.

He nodded with steady glance. “When we go, you tell--we find her,” he said.

She started then and looked at him--and the clear colour came to her face. “You know--where--she is!”

But he shook his head. “We find her,” he repeated. “You tell.”

And as they threaded the streets--into drays and past clanging cars and through the tangle of wheels and horses and noise--and she told him the story, shouting it above the rumble and hurry of the streets, into the dark ear that bent beside her.

The look in Achilles’s face deepened, but its steady quiet did not change. “We find her,” he repeated each time, and Miss Stone’s heart caught the rhythm of it, under the hateful noise. “We find her.”

Then the great house on the lake faced them.

She looked at him a minute in doubt. Her face broke--“She may have come--home?” she said.

“I go with you,” said Achilles.

There was no sign of life, but the door swung open before them and they went into the great hall--up the long stairway that echoed only vacant softness, and into the library with its ranging rows of perfect books. She motioned him before her. “_I_ must tell them,” she said. She passed through the draperies of another door and the silence of the great house settled itself about the man and waited with him.

XI

TWO MEN FACE EACH OTHER

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.

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 hoarsely.

But the man did not stir.

The woman lifted her eyes and looked at Achilles. There was no recognition in the glance--only a kind of impatience that he was there. The Greek moved toward the door--but the great man stayed him. “Don’t go,” he said. He reached up a hand to his wife, laying it on her shoulder. “We can’t pay, dearest,” he said slowly.

Her open lips regarded him and the quick tears were in her eyes. She brushed them back, and looked at him--“Let _me_ pay!” she said fiercely, “I will give up--everything--and pay!” She had crouched to him, her groping fingers on his arm.

Above her head the glances of the two men met.

Her husband bent to her, speaking very slowly... to a child.

“Listen, Louie--they might give her back to-day--if we paid... but they would take her again--to-morrow--next week--next year. We shall never be safe if we pay. Nobody will be safe--”

Her face was on his arm, sobbing close. “I hate--it!” she said brokenly, “I _hate_--your--money! I want Betty!” The cry went through the room--and the man was on his feet, looking down at her--

“Don’t, Louie,” he said--“don’t, dear--I can’t bear that! See, dear--sit down!” He had placed her in the chair and was crooning to her, bending to her. “We shall have her back--soon--now.”

The telephone was whirring and he sprang to it.

The woman lifted her face, staring at it.

The Greek’s deep eyes fixed themselves on it.

The room was so still they could hear the tiny, ironic words flinging themselves spitefully in the room, and biting upon the air. “Time’s up,” the Thing tittered--“Make it fifty thousand now--for a day. Fifty thousand down and the child delivered safe--Br-r-r-r!”

The woman sprang forward. “Tell them we’ll pay, Phil--give it to me--Yes--yes--we’ll pay!” She struggled a little--but the hand had thrust her back and the receiver was on its hook.

“We shall _not_ pay!” said the man sternly, “not if they make it a million!”

“I think they make it a million,” said Achilles quietly.

They looked up at him with startled eyes.

“They know you--rich--” His hands flung themselves. “So rich! They _make_ you pay--yes--they make everyone pay, I think!” His dark eyes were on the woman significantly--

“What do you mean?” she said swiftly.

“If you pay--they steal them everywhere--little children.” His eyes seemed to see them at play in the sunshine--and the dark shadows stealing upon them. The woman’s eyes were on his face, breathless.

“They have taken Betty!” she said. It was a broken cry.

“We find her,” said Achilles simply. “Then little children play--happy.” He turned to go.

But the woman stayed him. Her face trembled to hold itself steady under his glance. “I want to save the children, too,” she said. “I will be brave!”

Her husband’s startled face was turned to her and she smiled to it bravely. “Help me, Phil!” she said. She reached out her hands to him and he took them tenderly. He had not been so near her for years. She was looking in his face, smiling still, across the white line of her lip. “I shall help,” she said slowly. “But you must not trust me, dear--not too far.... I want my little girl--”

There were tears in the eyes of the two men--and the Greek went softly out, closing the door. Down the wide hallway--out of the great door, with its stately carvings and the two pink stone lions that guarded the way--out to the clear night of stars. The breeze blew in--a little breath from the lake, that lapped upon the breakwater and died out. Achilles stood very still--lifting his face to it. Behind him, in the city, little children were asleep... and in the great house the man and the woman waited alone--for the help that was coming to them--running with swift feet in the night. It sped upon iron rails and crept beneath the ground and whispered in the air--and in the heart of Achilles it dreamed under the quiet stars.

XIV

THE PRICE ACHILLES PAID

The little shop was closed. The fruit-trays had been carried in and the shutters put up, and from an upper window a line of light gleamed on the deserted street. Achilles glanced at it and turned into an alley at the side, groping his way toward the rear. He stopped and fumbled for a knob and rapped sharply. But a hand was already on the door, scrambling to undo it, and an eager face confronted him, flashing white teeth at him. “You come!” said the boy swiftly.

He turned and fled up the stairs and Achilles followed. A faint sense of onions was in the air. Achilles sniffed it gratefully. He remembered suddenly that he had not eaten since morning. But the boy did not pause for him--he was beckoning with mysterious hand from a doorway and Achilles followed. “Alcie--got hurt,” whispered the boy. He was trembling with fear and excitement, and he pointed to the bed across the room.

Achilles stepped, with lightest tread, and looked down. A boy, half asleep, murmured and turned his head restlessly. A red-clotted blur ran along the forehead, and the face, streaked with mud, was drawn in a look of pain. As Achilles bent over him, the boy cried out and threw up a hand; then he turned his head, muttering, and dozed again.

Achilles withdrew lightly, beckoning to the boy beside him.

Yaxis followed, his eyes on the figure on the bed. “All day,” he said, “he lie sick.”

Achilles closed the door softly and turned to him. “Tell me, Yaxis, what happened,” he said.

The boy’s face opened dramatically. “I look up--I see Alcie--like that--” his gesture fitted to the room--“He stand in door--all covered mud--blood run--cart broke--no fruit--no hat.” The boy’s hands were everywhere, as he spoke, dispensing fruit, smashing carts and filling up the broken words with horror and a flow of blood. Achilles’s face grew grave. The Greeks were not without persecution in the land of freedom, and his boy had lain all day suffering--while he had been lost in the great house by the lake.

He took off his coat and turned back his sleeves. “You bring water,” he said gently. “We will see what hurts him.”

But the boy had put his supper on the table and was beckoning him with swift gesture. “You eat,” he said pleadingly. And Achilles ate hastily and gave directions for the basin of water and towels and a sponge, and the boy carried them into the room beyond.

Half an hour later Alcibiades lay in bed, his clothes removed and the blood washed from his face and hair. The clotted line still oozed a little on the temple and the look of pain had not gone away. Achilles watched him with anxious eyes. He bent over the bed and spoke to him soothingly, his voice gentle as a woman’s in its soft Greek accents; but the look of pain in the boy’s face deepened and his voice chattered shrill.

They watched the ambulance drive away from in front of the striped awning. Achilles held a card in his thin fingers--a card that would admit him to his boy. Yaxis’s eyes were gloomy with dread, and his quick movements were subdued as he went about the business of the shop, carrying the trays of fruit to the stall outside and arranging the fruit under the striped awning. He was not to go out with the push-cart to-day. There was too much work to do--and Achilles could not let the boy go from him. Later, too, Achilles must go to the hospital--and to the big house on the lake, and someone must be left with the shop.

So he kept the boy beside him, looking at him, now and then, with deep, quiet eyes that seemed to see the city taking its toll of life--of children--the children at play and the children at work. This land that he had sought with his boys--where the wind of freedom blew fresh from the prairies and the sea... and even little children were not safe! He seemed to see it--through the day--this great monster that gathered them in--from all lands--and trod them beneath its great feet, crushing them, while they lifted themselves to it and threw themselves--and prayed to it for the new day--that they had come so far to seek.

But when Achilles presented his ticket for the boy, at the hospital door, it was a woman of his own race who met him, dark-eyed and strong--and smiled at him a flash of sympathy. “Yes--he is doing well. They operated at once. Come and see. But you must not speak to him.” She led him cautiously down the long corridor between the beds. “See, he is asleep.” She bent over him, touching the bandage. Beneath it, the dark skin was pallid, but the breath came easily from the sleeping lips.

She smiled at Achilles, guiding him from the room, ignoring the tears that looked at her. “He is doing well, you see. It was pressure that caused the fever, the bone was not injured. He will recover quickly. Yes. We are glad!”

And Achilles, out under the clear sky, raised his face and caught the sound of the city--its murmured, innumerable toil and the great clang of wheels turning. And he drew a deep, quick breath. A city of power and swift care for its own. The land of many hands reaching out to the world. And Achilles’s head lifted itself under the sky; and a mighty force knit within him--a deep, quiet force out of the soul of the past--pledging itself.

XV

THE POLICE MOVE