Part 11 (2/2)

and he held a key that should open the dark door that baffled them all. When he spoke, that door would open for them--a little way, perhaps--only a little way--but the rest would be clear. And soon the boy would speak.

In the house Philip Harris waited; and with him the chief of police, detectives and plain-clothes men--summoned hastily--waited what should develop. They watched the boy and his father, from a distance, and speculated and made guesses on what he would know; for weeks they had been waiting on a sick boy's whim--held back by the doctor's orders.

They watched him moving across the garden--his quick, supple gestures, his live face--the boy was well enough! They smoked innumerable cigars and strolled out through the grounds and sat by the river, and threw stones into its sluggish current, waiting while hours went by. Since the ultimatum--a hundred thousand for three months--not a line had reached them, no message over the whispering wires--the child might be in the city, hidden in some safe corner; she might be in Europe, or in Timbuctoo. There had been time enough to smuggle her away. Every port had been watched, but there was the Canadian line stretching to the north, and the men who were ”on the deal” would stop at nothing. They had been approached, tentatively, in the beginning, for a share of profits; but they had scorned the overture. ”Catch me--if you can!” the voice laughed and rang off. The police were hot against them. Just one clue--the merest clue--and they would run it to earth--like bloodhounds.

They chewed the ends of their cigars and waited... and in the garden the boy and his father watched the clouds go by and talked of Athens and G.o.ds and temples and sunny streets. Back through the past, carefree they went--and at every turn the boy's memory rang true. ”Do you remember, Alcie--the little house below the Temple of the Winds--” Achilles's eyes were on his face--and the boy's face laughed--”Yes--father.

That house--” quick running words that tripped themselves--”where I stole--figs--three little figs. You whipped me then!” The boy laughed and turned on his side and watched the clouds and the talk ran on...

coming closer at last, across the great Sea, through New York and the long hurrying train, into the grimy city--on the sh.o.r.e of the lake--the boy's eyes grew wistful. ”I go home--with you--father--?” he said.

It was a quick question and his eyes flashed from the garden to his father's face.

”Do you what to go home, Alcie?” The face smiled at him. ”Don't you like it here?” A gesture touched the garden.

”I like--yes. I go home--with you,” he said simply.

”You must stay till you are strong,” said the father, watching him. ”You were hurt, you know. It takes time to get strong.... You remember that you were hurt?”

The words dropped slowly, one by one, and the day drowsed. The sun--warm as Athens--shone down, waiting, while the boy turned slowly on his side... his eyes had grown dark. ”I try--remember” His voice was half a whisper, ”--but it runs--away!” The eyes seemed to be straining to see something beyond them--through a veil.

Achilles's hand pa.s.sed before them and shut them off. ”Don't try, Alcie.

Never mind--it's all right. Don't mind!”

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 s.h.i.+vered--there was fire in her veins, and beside her on the hearth the child seemed to crouch and s.h.i.+ver 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 gla.s.s--waiting. She turned her head uneasily and moved away. She must save it for the night--for the dark hours that never pa.s.sed. 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.

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