The man’s face fell back.  Then he darted forward and glared at the child—­through the mysterious, dawning light—­on the dark, tender face and the little lip that trembled—­looking up—­“My God!” he said.  He had darted from them.

The door was open wide and the two glided in silently, and stood in the emptiness.  Achilles led the child to a great divan across the hall and placed her beside him—­her little feet were crossed in the rough shoes and her hands hung listless.

Behind a velvet curtain, the butler’s voice called frantic words—­a telephone bell rang sharply and whirred and rang a long fierce call and the butler’s voice took it up and flung it back—­“Yes, sir.  She’s here!  Yes, sir—­that’s what I said—­she’s a-settin’ here, sir—­on the sofa—­with the furriner—­yes, sir!” He put his head around the velvet curtain.  “Will you speak to your father, Miss?”

His awe-struck hand held the receiver and he helped the strange, little figure to its seat in front of the ’phone.  She put the tube to her lips.  “Hallo, Daddy.  Yes, it’s Betty....  Mr. Achilles brought me, father....  Yes—­yes—­your little Betty—­yes—­and I’m all ri-i-ght....”  The receiver dropped from her fingers.  She had buried her face in her arms and was sobbing softly.

XXXVII

THE BIG BED

Achilles sprang forward.  “She’s all right, Mr. Harris—­all right!” His hand dropped to the trembling shoulder and rested there, as his quiet voice repeated the words.  He bent forward and lifted the child in his arms and moved away with her.  But before he had traversed the long hall, the little head had fallen forward on his shoulder and the child slept.  Behind the velvet curtain, the voice of Conner wrestled faintly with the telephone and all about them great lights glowed on the walls; they lighted the great staircase that swept mistily up, and the figure of Achilles mounting slowly in the stately, lonely house, the child in his arms.  His hand steadied the sleeping head with careful touch, against his shoulder....  They were not jolting now, in heavy cars, through the traffic streets—­or wandering on the plain....  Little Betty Harris had come home.

Above them at the top of the long stairs, a grey figure appeared, and paused a moment and looked down.  Then Miss Stone descended swiftly, her hands outstretched—­they did not touch the sleeping child, but hovered above her with a look—­half pain—­half joy.

Achilles smiled to her—­“She come home,” he whispered.

She turned with quick breath and they mounted the stairs—­the child still asleep... through the long corridor—­to the princess’s room beyond—­with its soft lights—­and great, silken hangings and canopied bed, open for the night—­waiting for Betty Harris.

Achilles bent and laid her down, with lightest touch, and straightened himself.  “We let her sleep,” he said gently.  “She—­very tired.”