“I will ask the questions,” Achilles had said, in his quiet voice, and it had been arranged that he should come to Idlewood when the surgeon gave the word.

He arrived the next night, stepping from the car as it drew up before the door, and Alcibiades, standing among the flowers talking with Miss Stone, saw him and started and came forward swiftly. He had not known that his father was coming—he ran a little as he came nearer and threw himself in his arms, laughing out.

Achilles smiled—a dark, wistful smile. “You are grown strong,” he said. He held him off to look at him.

The boy’s teeth gleamed—a white line. “To-morrow we go home?” he replied. “I am all well—father—well now!”

But Achilles shook his head. “To-morrow we stay,” he replied. “I stay one day—two days—three—” He looked at the boy narrowly. “Then we go home.”

The boy smiled contentedly and they moved away. Early the next morning he was up before Achilles, calling to him from the garden to hurry and see the flowers before the mist was off them, and showing him, with eager teeth, his own radishes—ready to pull—and little lines of green lettuce that sprang above the earth. “I plant,” said the boy proudly. “I make grow.” He swung his arm over the whole garden.

Achilles watched him with gentle face, following him from bed to bed and stooping to the plants with courteous gesture. It was all like home. They had never been in a garden before—in this new land... the melons and berries and plums and peaches and pears that came crated into the little fruit-shop had grown in unknown fields—but here they stretched in the sun; and the two Greeks moved toward them with laughing, gentle words and quick gestures that flitted and stopped, and went on, and gathered in the day. The new world was gathering its sky about them; and their faces turned to meet it. And with every gesture of the boy, Achilles’s eyes were on him, studying his face, its quick colour running beneath the tan, and the clear light of his eyes. Indoors or out, he was testing him; and with every gesture his heart sang. His boy was well... 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 gods 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 shore 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 passed 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.