“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.