Achilles knew that he had only to lift his hand—­to cry out to them, as they sped, and they would turn with leaping wheel.  There was not a man, hurrying about his own affairs, who would not gladly stop to gather up the child that was lost.  Word had come to Philip Harris—­east and west—­endless offers of help.  But the great car thundered by and Achilles’s glance followed it, sweeping with it—­on toward the city and the dull glow of sky.  He was breathing hard as he went, and he plunged on a step—­two steps—­ten—­before he held his pace; then he drew a deep, free breath, and faced about.  The knife dropped back in his breast, and his hand sought the revolver in his hip pocket, crowding it down a little.  He had been sure he could face them—­two of them—­three—­as many as might be.  But the car had swept on, bearing its strangers to the city... and the little house on the plain was still asleep.  He had a kind of happy superstition that he was to save the child single-handed.  He had not trusted the police... with their great, foolish fingers.  They could not save his little girl.  She had needed Achilles—­and he had held the thread of silken cobweb—­and traced it bit by bit to the place where they had hidden her.  He should save her!

He glanced at the stars—­an hour gone—­and the long road to tramp.  He ran swiftly to the child in the grass and lifted the coat and she leaped up, laughing—­as if it were a game; and they swung out into the road again, walking with swift, even steps.  “Are you tired?” asked Achilles.  But she shook her head.

His hand in his pocket, in the darkness, had felt something and he pressed it toward her—­“Eat that,” he said, “you will be hungry.”

She took it daintily, and felt of it, and turned it over.  “What is it?” she asked.  Then she set her small teeth in it—­and laughed out.  “It’s chocolate,” she exclaimed happily.  She held it up, “Will you have a bite, Mr. Achilles?”

But Achilles had drawn out another bit of tin-foil and opened it.  “I have yet more,” he said, “—­two—­three—­six piece.  I put here in my pocket, every day—­I carry chocolate—­till I find you.  Every day I say, ’she be hungry, maybe—­then she like chocolate’—­”

She nibbled it in happy little nibbles, as they walked.  “I didn’t eat any supper,” she said.  “I was too happy—­and too afraid, I guess.  That was a long time ago,” she added, after a minute.

“A long time ago,” said Achilles cheerfully.  He had taken her hand again, and they trudged on under the stars.

“Nobody must hurt Mrs. Seabury!” said the child suddenly.

“I tell you that,” said Achilles—­he had half stopped on the road.  “Nobody hurt that good lady—­she, your friend.”

“Yes, she is my friend.  She was good to me.... She had a little girl once—­like me—­and some bad men hurt her....  I don’t think they stole her—­” She pondered it a minute—­“I don’t seem to understand—­” she gave a little swift sigh.  “But Mrs. Seabury is going to take her a long, long way off—­and keep her always.”