For a few minutes the Master sat quite motionless, pondering. Then
suddenly he got up again, and strode to one of the westward-looking
windows. The light was almost wholly gone, now. The man's figure,
big-shouldered, compact, well-knit, appeared only as a dim silhouette
against the faded blur in the west; a blur smoky and streaked with
dull smudges as of old, dried blood.
Far below, stretching away, away, shimmered the city's million
inconsequential lights. Above, stars were peeping out--were spying
down at all this feverish mystery of human life. Some of the low-hung
stars seemed to blend with the far lights along the Palisades. The
Master's lips tightened with impatience, with longing.
"There's where it is," he muttered. "Not five miles from here! It's
there, and I've got to have it. There--a thing that can't be bought!
There--a thing that must be mine!"
Among the stars, cutting down diagonally from the north-west, crept a
tiny, red gleam. The Master looked very grim, as his eyes followed its
swift flight.
"The Chicago mail-plane, just getting in," he commented. "In half an
hour, the Paris plane starts from the Cortlandt Street aero-tower.
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