The man pulled open a drawer in the table and silently gazed down at several little boxes within.  He opened some.  From one, on a bed of purple satin, the Croix de Guerre, with a palm, gleamed up at him.  Another disclosed an “M.M.,” a Medaille Militaire.  A third showed him the “D.F.C.,” or Distinguished Flying Cross.  Still another contained aviator’s insignia in the form of a double pair of wings.  The Master smiled, and closed the boxes, then the drawer.

“After these,” he mused, “dead inaction?  Not for me!”

His dark eyes were shining with eagerness as he walked to a door beside that through which the Arab had entered.  He swung it wide, disclosing an ample closet, likewise inundated with light.  There hung a war-worn aviator’s uniform of leather, gauntlets, a sheepskin jacket, a helmet, resistal goggles, a cartridge-belt still half full of ammunition, a heavy service automatic.

For a moment the man looked in at these.  A great yearning came upon his face.  Caressingly he touched the uniform, the helmet.  He unhooked the pistol from where it hung, and carried it back to the table.

There he laid it down, and drew up his chair in front of it.  For a moment, silence fell as he remained there studying the automatic—­silence save for the faint, far hum of the city, the occasional melodious note of steamer-whistles on the river.

The Master’s face, now that full light brought out its details, showed a white scar that led from his right ear down along jaw and throat, till the collar masked it.  Gray hairs, beyond those of his age, sprinkled his temples.  Strangely he smiled as he observed the nicks and deep excoriations in stock and barrel of the formidable weapon.  He reached out, took up the gun once more, weighed it, got the feel of it, patted it with affection.

“We’ve been through some wonderful times together, old pal, you and I,” said he.  “We thought it was all over, didn’t we, for a while?  But it’s not!  Life’s not done, yet.  It’s maybe just beginning!  We’re going out on the long trek, again!”

For a while he sat there musing.  Then he summoned Rrisa again, bade him remove the tray, and gave him instructions about the guest soon to arrive.  When Rrisa had withdrawn, the Master pulled over one of the huge atlases, opened it, turned to the map of Arabia, and fell into deep study.

Rrisa’s tapping at the door, minutes later, roused him.  At his order to advance, the door swung.  The Arab ushered in a guest, then silently disappeared.  Without a sound, the door closed.

The Master arose, advancing with outstretched hand.

“Bohannan!  God, but I’m glad to see you!”

Their hands met and clasped.  The Master led Bohannan to the table and gestured toward a chair.  Bohannan threw his hat on the table with a large, sweeping gesture typical of his whole character, and sat down.  And for a moment, they looked at each other in silence.