The woman sprang forward.  “Tell them we’ll pay, Phil—­give it to me—­Yes—­yes—­we’ll pay!” She struggled a little—­but the hand had thrust her back and the receiver was on its hook.

“We shall not pay!” said the man sternly, “not if they make it a million!”

“I think they make it a million,” said Achilles quietly.

They looked up at him with startled eyes.

“They know you—­rich—­” His hands flung themselves.  “So rich!  They make you pay—­yes—­they make everyone pay, I think!” His dark eyes were on the woman significantly—­

“What do you mean?” she said swiftly.

“If you pay—­they steal them everywhere—­little children.”  His eyes seemed to see them at play in the sunshine—­and the dark shadows stealing upon them.  The woman’s eyes were on his face, breathless.

“They have taken Betty!” she said.  It was a broken cry.

“We find her,” said Achilles simply.  “Then little children play—­happy.”  He turned to go.

But the woman stayed him.  Her face trembled to hold itself steady under his glance.  “I want to save the children, too,” she said.  “I will be brave!”

Her husband’s startled face was turned to her and she smiled to it bravely.  “Help me, Phil!” she said.  She reached out her hands to him and he took them tenderly.  He had not been so near her for years.  She was looking in his face, smiling still, across the white line of her lip.  “I shall help,” she said slowly.  “But you must not trust me, dear—­not too far....  I want my little girl—­”

There were tears in the eyes of the two men—­and the Greek went softly out, closing the door.  Down the wide hallway—­out of the great door, with its stately carvings and the two pink stone lions that guarded the way—­out to the clear night of stars.  The breeze blew in—­a little breath from the lake, that lapped upon the breakwater and died out.  Achilles stood very still—­lifting his face to it.  Behind him, in the city, little children were asleep... and in the great house the man and the woman waited alone—­for the help that was coming to them—­running with swift feet in the night.  It sped upon iron rails and crept beneath the ground and whispered in the air—­and in the heart of Achilles it dreamed under the quiet stars.

XIV

THE PRICE ACHILLES PAID

The little shop was closed.  The fruit-trays had been carried in and the shutters put up, and from an upper window a line of light gleamed on the deserted street.  Achilles glanced at it and turned into an alley at the side, groping his way toward the rear.  He stopped and fumbled for a knob and rapped sharply.  But a hand was already on the door, scrambling to undo it, and an eager face confronted him, flashing white teeth at him.  “You come!” said the boy swiftly.

He turned and fled up the stairs and Achilles followed.  A faint sense of onions was in the air.  Achilles sniffed it gratefully.  He remembered suddenly that he had not eaten since morning.  But the boy did not pause for him—­he was beckoning with mysterious hand from a doorway and Achilles followed.  “Alcie—­got hurt,” whispered the boy.  He was trembling with fear and excitement, and he pointed to the bed across the room.