But the boy had thrown himself forward with a long cry, sobbing. “I—want—to—see,” he said, “it—hurts—here.” His fingers touched the faint line along his forehead. And Achilles bent and kissed it, and soothed him, talking low words—till the boy sat up, a little laugh on his lips—his grief forgotten.
So the detectives went back to the city—each with his expensive cigar—cursing luck. And Achilles, after a day or two, followed them. “He will be better without you,” said the surgeon. “You disturb his mind. Let him have time to get quiet again. Give nature her chance.”
So Achilles returned to the city, unlocking the boy’s fingers from his. “You must wait a little while,” he said gently. “Then I come for you.” And he left the boy in the garden, looking after the great machine that bore him away—an unfathomable look in his dark, following eyes.
XXI
A CONNOISSEUR SPEAKS
The next day it rained. All day the rain dripped on the roof and ran down the waterspouts, hurrying to the ground. In her own room the mistress of the house sat watching the rain and the heavy sky and drenched earth. The child was never for a minute out of her thoughts. Her fancy pictured gruesome places, foul dens where the child sat—pale and worn and listless. Did they tie her hands? Would they let her run about a little—and play? But she could not play—a child could not play in all the strangeness and sordidness. The mother had watched the dripping rain too long. It seemed to be falling on coffins. She crept back to the fire and held out her hands to a feeble blaze that flickered up, and died out. Why did not Marie come back? It was three o’clock—where was Marie? She looked about her and held out her hands to the blaze and shivered—there was fire in her veins, and beside her on the hearth the child seemed to crouch and shiver and reach out thin hands to the warmth. Phil had said they would not hurt her! But what could a man know? He did not know the sensitive child-nature that trembled at a word. And she was with rough men—hideous women—longing to come home—wondering why they did not come for her and take her away... dear child! How cruel Phil was! She crouched nearer the fire, her eyes devouring it—her thoughts crowding on the darkness. Those terrible men had been silent seven weeks—more than seven—desperate weeks... not a word out of the darkness—and she could not cry out to them—perhaps they would not tap the wires again! The thought confronted her and she sprang up and walked wildly, her pulses beating in her temples.... She stopped by a table and looked down. A little vial lay there, and the medicine dropper and wine glass—waiting. She turned her head uneasily and moved away. She must save it for the night—for the dark hours that never passed. But she must think of something! She glanced about her, and rang the bell sharply, and waited.
“I want the Greek boy,” she said, “send him to me!”
“Yes, madame.” Marie’s voice hurried itself away... and Alcibiades stood in the doorway, looking in.
The woman turned to him—a little comfort shining in the sleepless eyes. “Come in,” she said, “I want to talk to you—tell me about Athens—the sun shines there!” She glanced again at the hearth and shivered.