achilles saw her, and moved forward swiftly. but she ignored him—her eyes were on the short, square man seated at the table, and she came to him, bending close. “you must pay, phil,” she said. the words held themselves in her reddened eyes, and her fingers picked a little at the lace on her dress... then they trembled and reached out to him.

“you must pay!” she said hoarsely.

but the man did not stir.

the woman lifted her eyes and looked at achilles. there was no recognition in the glance—only a kind of impatience that he was there. the greek moved toward the door—but the great man stayed him. “don’t go,” he said. he reached up a hand to his wife, laying it on her shoulder. “we can’t pay, dearest,” he said slowly.

her open lips regarded him and the quick tears were in her eyes. she brushed them back, and looked at him—“let me pay!” she said fiercely, “i will give up—everything—and pay!” she had crouched to him, her groping fingers on his arm.

above her head the glances of the two men met.

her husband bent to her, speaking very slowly... to a child.

“listen, louie—they might give her back to-day—if we paid... but they would take her again—to-morrow—next week—next year. we shall never be safe if we pay. nobody will be safe—”

her face was on his arm, sobbing close. “i hate—it!” she said brokenly, “i hate—your—money! i want betty!” the cry went through the room—and the man was on his feet, looking down at her—

“don’t, louie,” he said—“don’t, dear—i can’t bear that! see, dear—sit down!” he had placed her in the chair and was crooning to her, bending to her. “we shall have her back—soon—now.”

the telephone was whirring and he sprang to it.

the woman lifted her face, staring at it.

the greek’s deep eyes fixed themselves on it.

the room was so still they could hear the tiny, ironic words flinging themselves spitefully in the room, and biting upon the air. “time’s up,” the thing tittered—“make it fifty thousand now—for a day. fifty thousand down and the child delivered safe—br-r-r-r!”

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.