“Achilles Alexandrakis—yes.” The Greek bowed.
“I know—she called you Mr. Achilles,” said the man.
A shadow rested on the two faces, looking at each other.
“She is lost,” said the father. He said it under his breath, as if denying it.
“I find her,” said Achilles quietly.
The man leaned forward—something like a sneer on his face. “She is stolen, I tell you—and the rascals have got at their work quick!” He struck the pile of papers on the desk. “They will give her up for ten thousand dollars—to-night.” He glanced at the clock on the wall, ticking its minutes, hurrying to six o’clock.
The dark eyes had followed the glance; they came back to the man’s face—“You pay that—ten thousand dollar?” said Achilles.
“I shall be damned first!” said the man with slow emphasis. “But we shall find them—” His square, red jaw held the words, “and they shall pay—God! They shall pay!” The room rang to the word. It was a small bare room—only a table and two chairs, the clock on the wall and a desk across the room. “Sit down,” said Philip Harris. He motioned to the chair before him.
But Achilles did not take it, he rested a hand on the back, looking down at him. “I glad—you not pay,” he said.
The other lifted his eyebrows. “I shall pay the man that finds her—the man that brings her back! You understand that?” His bright, little glance had keen scorn.