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!”