purple satin, the Croix de Guerre, with a palm, gleamed up at him.
Another disclosed an "M.M.," a Médaille 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