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.