it--there were headlines and pictures... the public was interested. The
tale grew to a romance, and fathers and mothers and children in Boston
and New York and London heard how Betty had sat in the gay little
fruit-shop--and listened to Achilles's stories of Athens and Greece, and
of the Acropolis--and of the studies in Greek history, and her gods and
goddesses and the temples and ruins lying packed in their boxes waiting
her return. The daily papers were a thrilling tale--with the quick touch
of love and human sympathy that brings the world together.

To Achilles it was as if the hand of Zeus had reached and touched the
child--and she was not. What god sheltered her beneath a magic veil--so
that she passed unseen? He lifted his face, seeking in air and sun and
cloud, a token. Over the lake came the great breeze, speaking to him,
and out of the air a thousand hands reached to him--to tell him of the
child. But he could not find the place that held her. In the dusky shop,
he held his quiet way. No one, looking, would have guessed--"Two cen's,
yes," and his swift fingers made change while his eyes searched every
face. But the child, in her shining cloud, was not revealed.

When he was summoned before the detectives and questioned, with swift
sternness, it was his own questions that demanded answer--and got it.
The men gathered in the library, baffled by the search, and asking
futile, dreary questions, learned to wait in amusement for the quick,
searching gestures flung at them and the eager face that seemed to drink
their words. Gradually they came to understand--the Greek was learning
the science of kidnapping--its methods and devices and the probable plan
of approach. But the Chief shook his head. "You won't trace these men
by any of the old tricks. It's a new deal. We shall only get them by a
fluke." And to his own men he said, "Try any old chance, boys, run it
down--if it takes weeks--Harris won't compromise--and you may stumble