“I come. I wait,” said Achilles. The man disappeared. Presently he returned. “You come with me,” he said. His look was less stern, but he raised his voice a little, as if speaking to a child, or a deaf man. “You come with me,” he repeated. Achilles followed with quick-gliding foot--along the corridor, through a great room--to a door. The man paused and lifted his hand and knocked. His back was tense, as if he held himself ready to spring. A voice sounded and he turned the handle softly, and looked at Achilles. Then the door opened and the Greek passed in and the man closed the door behind him. A man seated at a table across the room looked up. For a minute the two men looked at each other--the one short and square and red; the other thin as a reed, with dark, clear eyes. The short man spoke first. “What do you know about this?” His hand pressed a heap of papers upon the desk before him and his eyes searched the dark face. Achilles’s glance rested on the papers--then it lifted itself. “Your name is Achilles?” said the other sharply. “Achilles Alexandrakis--yes.” The Greek bowed. “I know--she called you Mr. Achilles,” said the man. A shadow rested on the two faces, looking at each other. “She is lost,” said the father. He said it under his breath, as if denying it. “I find her,” said Achilles quietly. The man leaned forward--something like a sneer on his face. “She is stolen, I tell you--and the rascals have got at their work quick!” He struck the pile of papers on the desk. “They will give her up for ten thousand dollars--to-night.” He glanced at the clock on the wall, ticking its minutes, hurrying to six o’clock. The dark eyes had followed the glance; they came back to the man’s face--“You pay that--ten thousand dollar?” said Achilles. “I shall be damned first!” said the man with slow emphasis. “But we shall find them--” His square, red jaw held the words, “and _they_ shall pay--God! They shall pay!” The room rang to the word. It was a small bare room--only a table and two chairs, the clock on the wall and a desk across the room. “Sit down,” said Philip Harris. He motioned to the chair before him. But Achilles did not take it, he rested a hand on the back, looking down at him. “I glad--you not pay,” he said. The other lifted his eyebrows. “I shall pay the man that finds her--the man that brings her back! You understand that?” His bright, little glance had keen scorn. But the face opposite him did not change. “I find her,” said Achilles again. “Then you get the ten thousand,” said the man. He shifted a little in his chair. They were all alike--these foreigners--money was what they wanted--and plenty of it. The sneer on his face deepened abruptly. Achilles’s glance was on the clock. “It makes bad--to pay that money,” he said. “When you pay--more child stole--to-morrow, more child stole--more money--” His dark hand lifted itself out over the houses of the great city--and all the sleepy children making ready for bed.