It was at this map that the master of Niss’rosh, the eagle’s nest, was peering as the curtain rises on our story.  He was half reclining in a big, Chinese bamboo chair, with an attitude of utter and disheartening boredom.  His crossed legs were stretched out, one heel digging into the soft pile of the Tabreez rug.  Muscular arms folded in an idleness that irked them with aching weariness, he sat there, brooding, motionless.

Everything about the man spelled energy at bay, forces rusting, ennui past telling.  But force still dominated.  Force showed in the close-cropped, black hair and the small ears set close to the head; in the corded throat and heavy jaws; in the well-muscled shoulders, sinewed hands, powerful legs.  This man was forty-one years old, and looked thirty-five.  Lines of chest and waist were those of the athlete.  Still, suspicions of fat, of unwonted softness, had begun to invade those lines.  Here was a splendid body, here was a dominating mind in process of going stale.

The face of the man was a mask of weariness of the soul, which kills so vastly more efficiently than weariness of the body.  You could see that weariness in the tired frown of the black brows, the narrowing of the dark eyes, the downward tug of the lips.  Wrinkles of stagnation had began to creep into forehead and cheeks—­wrinkles that no amount of gymnasium, of club life, of careful shaving, of strict hygiene could banish.

Through the west windows the slowly changing hues of gray, of mulberry, and dull rose-pink blurred in the sky, cast softened lights upon those wrinkles, but could not hide them.  They revealed sad emptiness of purpose.  This man was tired unto death, if ever man were tired.

He yawned, sighed deeply, stretched out his hand and took up a bit of a model mechanism from the table, where it had lain with other fragments of apparatus.  For a moment he peered at it; then he tossed it back again, and yawned a second time.

“Business!” he growled. “‘Swapped my reputation for a song,’ eh?  Where’s my commission, now?”

He got up, clasped his hands behind him, and walked a few times up and down the heavy rug, his footfalls silent.

“The business could have gone on without me!” he added, bitterly.  “And, after all, what’s any business, compared to life?”

He yawned again, stretched up his arms, groaned and laughed with mockery: 

“A little more money, maybe, when I don’t know what to do with what I’ve got already!  A few more figures on a checkbook—­and the heart dying in me!”

Then he relapsed into silence.  Head down, hands thrust deep in pockets, he paced like a captured animal in bars.  The bitterness of his spirit was wormwood.  What meant, to him, the interests and pleasures of other men?  Profit and loss, alcohol, tobacco, women—­all alike bore him no message.  Clubs, athletics, gambling—­he grumbled something savage as his thoughts turned to such trivialities.  And into his aquiline face came something the look of an eagle, trapped, there in that eagle’s nest of his.