The morning was alive in the hospital. The sun glinted in. Pale faces, lifted on their pillows, turned toward it; and Achilles, passing with light step between the rows, smiled at them. Alcibiades was better. They had told him, in the office, that he might talk to him to-day—a little while—and his face glowed with the joy of it.

The boy hailed him, from far down the ward, his weak voice filled with gladness, and Achilles hurried. He dropped into the chair beside him and took the thin hand in his strong, dark one, holding it while he talked—gentle words, full of the morning and of going home. The boy’s eyes brightened, watching his father’s face.

“Pain—gone,” he said, “—all gone.” His hand lifted to his forehead.

Achilles bent forward and touched it lightly, brushing the hair across it. “You are well now,” he said gratefully.

The boy smiled, his dark eyes fixed absently on his thoughts. “They—bad men!” he said abruptly.

Achilles leaned forward with anxious look, but the boy’s eyes were clear. “They run down,” he said quietly, “—and go fast—like wind—I try—I run. They shout and hit cart—and swear—and I lie on ground.” His lifted eyes seemed to be looking up at some great object passing close above him... and a look of dread held them. He drew a quick breath. “They bad men—” he said. “Little girl cry!”

Achilles bent forward, holding his breath. “What was it—Alcie?”

The boy’s eyes turned toward him trustingly. “They hurt bad,” he said. “I try—I run—”

“And the little girl—?” suggested Achilles gently. His voice would not have turned the breath of a dream; but Alcibiades wrinkled his forehead.

“She cry—” he said. “She look at me and cry—quick—They hurt that little girl. Yes—she cry—” His eyes closed sleepily. The nurse came forward.

“Better not talk any more,” she said.

Achilles got to his feet. He bent over the boy, his heart beating fast. “Good-bye, Alcie. To-morrow you tell me more—all about the little girl.” The words dropped quietly into the sleeping ear and the boy turned his face.

“To-morrow—tell—about—little girl...” he murmured—and was asleep.

Achilles passed swiftly out of the hospital—through the sun-glinting wards, out to the free air—his heart choking him. At the corner, he caught a car bound for the South side and boarded it.

And at the same moment Philip Harris, in his office in the works, was summoning the Chief of Police to instruct him to open negotiations with the kidnappers.

But Achilles reached the office first and before noon every member of the force knew that a clue had been found—a clue light as a child’s breath between sleep and waking, but none the less a clue—and to-morrow more would be known.

So Philip Harris stayed his hand—because of the muttered, half-incoherent word of a Greek boy, drowsing in a great sunny ward, the millionaire waited—and little children were safer that night.