and turned on his side and watched the clouds and the talk ran on... coming closer at last, across the great Sea, through New York and the long hurrying train, into the grimy city--on the shore of the lake--the boy’s eyes grew wistful. “I go home--with you--father--?” he said. It was a quick question and his eyes flashed from the garden to his father’s face. “Do you what to go home, Alcie?” The face smiled at him. “Don’t you like it here?” A gesture touched the garden. “I like--yes. I go home--with you,” he said simply. “You must stay till you are strong,” said the father, watching him. “You were hurt, you know. It takes time to get strong.... You remember that you were hurt?” The words dropped slowly, one by one, and the day drowsed. The sun--warm as Athens--shone down, waiting, while the boy turned slowly on his side... his eyes had grown dark. “I try--remember” His voice was half a whisper, “--but it runs--away!” The eyes seemed to be straining to see something beyond them--through a veil. Achilles’s hand passed before them and shut them off. “Don’t try, Alcie. Never mind--it’s all right. Don’t mind!” But the boy had thrown himself forward with a long cry, sobbing. “I--want--to--see,” he said, “it--hurts--here.” His fingers touched the faint line along his forehead. And Achilles bent and kissed it, and soothed him, talking low words--till the boy sat up, a little laugh on his lips--his grief forgotten. So the detectives went back to the city--each with his expensive cigar--cursing luck. And Achilles, after a day or two, followed them. “He will be better without you,” said the surgeon. “You disturb his mind. Let him have time to get quiet again. Give nature her chance.” So Achilles returned to the city, unlocking the boy’s fingers from his. “You must wait a little while,” he said gently. “Then I come for you.” And he left the boy in the garden, looking after the great machine that bore him away--an unfathomable look in his dark, following eyes. XXI A CONNOISSEUR SPEAKS