g the dark road.... And
Achilles seized the child by the shoulder, bearing her forward toward
the short grass--his quick-running hand thrusting her down--"Lie still!"
he whispered. The lights of the car had gleamed out, swaying a little in
the distance, as he threw his coat across her and pressed it flat. "Lie
still!" he whispered again, and was back in the road, his hand feeling
for the great banana knife that rested in his shirt--his eye searching
the road behind. There was time--yes--and he turned about and swung into
the long, stretching pace that covers the miles--without hurry, without
rest. The roar behind him grew, and flashed to light--and swept by--and
his eye caught the face of the chauffeur, as it flew, leaning intently
on the night; and in the lighted car behind him, flashed a face--a
man's face, outlined against the glass, a high, white face fixed upon
a printed page--some magnate, travelling at his ease, sleepless...
thundering past in the night--unconscious of the Greek, plodding in the
roadside dust.

Achilles knew that he had only to lift his hand--to cry out to them, as
they sped, and they would turn with leaping wheel. There was not a man,
hurrying about his own affairs, who would not gladly stop to gather
up the child that was lost. Word had come to Philip Harris--east
and west--endless offers of help. But the great car thundered by and
Achilles's glance followed it, sweeping with it--on toward the city and
the dull glow of sky. He was breathing hard as he went, and he plunged
on a step--two steps--ten--before he held his pace; then he drew a deep,
free breath, and faced about. The knife dropped back in his breast,
and his hand sought the revolver in his hip pocket, crowding it down a
little. He had been sure he could face them--two of them--three--as
many as might be. But the car had swept on, bearing its strangers to
the city... and the little house on the plain was still asleep. He had a
kind of happy superstition that he was to save the child single-handed.
He had not trusted the police... with their great, foolish fingers. They
could not save his little girl. She had needed Achilles--and he had held
the thread of silken cobweb--and traced it bit by bit to the place where
they had hidden her. He should save her!

He glanced at the stars--an hour gone--and the long road to tramp. He
ran swiftly to the child in the grass and lifted the coat and she leaped
up, laughing--as if it were a game; and t