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."