“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.