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.