“I wait,” said Achilles.
“Who told you to come?” demanded the man.
“I come. I wait,” said Achilles.
The man disappeared. Presently he returned. “You come with me,” he said. His look was less stern, but he raised his voice a little, as if speaking to a child, or a deaf man. “You come with me,” he repeated.
Achilles followed with quick-gliding foot—along the corridor, through a great room—to a door. The man paused and lifted his hand and knocked. His back was tense, as if he held himself ready to spring.
A voice sounded and he turned the handle softly, and looked at Achilles. Then the door opened and the Greek passed in and the man closed the door behind him.
A man seated at a table across the room looked up. For a minute the two men looked at each other—the one short and square and red; the other thin as a reed, with dark, clear eyes.
The short man spoke first. “What do you know about this?” His hand pressed a heap of papers upon the desk before him and his eyes searched the dark face.
Achilles’s glance rested on the papers—then it lifted itself.
“Your name is Achilles?” said the other sharply.