As these draperies closed the
apertures, light gushed from every angle and cornice. No specific
source of illumination seemed visible; but the room bathed itself in
soft, clear radiance with a certain restful greenish tinge, throwing
no shadows, pure as the day itself.
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.
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