“I used to do it—­time and again,” said the man, thoughtfully. “I couldn’t ‘a’ told you—­how.  I’d study on a case—­and study—­and give it up—­and then, all of a sudden—­pop!—­and there it was—­in my head.  I couldn’t have told how it got there, but it worked all right!” He lighted a cigar and threw the match from him, puffing slowly.  “I’d do it now—­if I could.”  He was lost in thought.  “There’s something in his eyes—­that Greek.  I’d like to be inside that black skull of his a minute.”  He sauntered across the room and went out.

The eyes of the chief of police looked after him vaguely.  He drew a column of figures toward him and began to add it—­starting at the bottom and travelling slowly up.  He was computing his revenues for the coming year.

XXIV

IT FLOATS A LITTLE

Achilles found Philip Harris at luncheon, and waited for him to come back, and laid his plan before him.

The millionaire listened, and nodded once or twice, and took up the receiver and gave an order.  “He’ll be at your place every day,” he said to Achilles as he hung it up.  “You tell him what you want—­and let me know if there’s anything else—­money—?” He looked at him.

But Achilles shook his head.  “I got money,” he said quickly.  “I get money—­six—­seven dollar—­every day.  I do good business!”

The millionaire smiled, a little bitterly.  “I do good business, too; but it doesn’t seem to count much.  Well—­let me know—­” He held out his hand and Achilles took it and hesitated and looked at the seamed red face that waited for him to go—­then he went quietly out.

He would have liked to speak swift words of hope—­they rode high in his heart—­but something in the face put him off and he went out into the sunshine and walked fast.  He looked far ahead as he went, smiling softly at his dream.  And now and then a man passed him—­and looked back and smiled too—­a shrew, tolerant, grown-up smile.

At ten o’clock the next morning Philip Harris’s big touring car drew up in front of the striped awning; it gave a little plaintive honk—­and stood still.  Achilles came to the door with swift look.  He turned back to the shop.  “I go,” he said to Alcibiades, and stepped across the pavement, and was off.

At two o’clock he returned to the shop, his face covered with big beads of perspiration, his hat gone and his eyes shining—­and, without a word, he went about the shop with his wonted air of swift-moving silence.  But the next day he was off again, and the next; and Alcibiades grew accustomed to the long car slipping up and the straight, slim figure sliding into it and taking its place and disappearing down the street.

Where Achilles went on these excursions, or what he did, no one knew.  Promptly at two each day he returned—­always dishevelled and alert, but wearing a look of triumph that sat strangely on the quiet Greek reserve.  It could not be said that Achilles strutted as he walked, but he had an air of confidence, as if he were seeing things—­things far ahead—­that were coming to him on the long road.