Slowly the look on his face grew to something hard and round and bright.
His lips tightened--“is that all?--Good-bye!” His voice sounded in the
tube and was gone, and he hung up the receiver. “They make it twenty
thousand--for one hour,” he said drily.
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.
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.