He looked about the room with quiet face. It was the room he had been in before--the day he spoke to the Halcyon Club--the ladies had costly gowns and strange hats, who had listened so politely while he told them of Athens and his beloved land. The room had been lighted then, with coloured lamps and globes--a kind of rosy radiance. Now the daylight came in through the high windows and filtered down upon him over brown books and soft, leather-covered walls. There was no sound in the big room. It seemed shut off from the world and Achilles sat very quiet, his dark face a little bent, his gaze fixed on the rug at his feet. He was thinking of the child--and of her face when she had lifted it to him out of the crowded street, that first day, and smiled at him... and of their long talks since. It was the Child who understood. The strange ladies had smiled at him and talked to him and drank their tea and talked again... he could hear the soft, keen humming of their voices and the flitter of garments all about him as they moved. But the child had sat very still--only her face lifted, while he told her of Athens and its beauty... and he had told her again--and again. She would never tire of it--as he could never tire. She was a child of light in the great new world... a child like himself--in the hurry of the noise. A sound came to him in the distant house--people talking--low voices that spoke and hurried on. The house was awake--quick questions ran through it--doors sounded and were still. Achilles turned his face toward the opening into the long wide hall, and waited. Through the vista there was a glimpse of the stairway and a figure passing up it--a short, square man who hurried. Then silence again--more bells and running feet. But no one came to the library--and no one sought the dark figure seated there, waiting. Strange foreign faces flashed themselves in the great mirror and out. The outer door opened and closed noiselessly to admit them--uncouth figures that passed swiftly up the stairway, glancing curiously about them--and dapper men who did not look up as they went. The house settled again to quiet, and the long afternoon, while Achilles waited. The light from the high windows grew dusky under chairs and tables; it withdrew softly along the gleaming books and hovered in the air above them--a kind of halo--and the shadows crept up and closed about him. Through the open door, a light appeared in the hall. A moving figure advanced to the library, and paused in the doorway, and came in. There was a minute’s fumbling at the electric button, and the soft lights came, by magic, everywhere in the room. The servant gave a quick glance about him, and started sternly--and came forward. Then he recognised the man. It was the Greek. But he looked at him sternly. The day had been full of suspicion and question--and the house was alive to it--“What do you want?” he said harshly. “I wait,” said Achilles. “Who told you to come?” demanded the man.