The major’s glance conveyed a world of indignant protest, but he obeyed in silence.  When he had withdrawn into the smoke-room, where a brooding pipe would ill divert his mind from various wild speculations, the Master slid open his own cabin door, and extended a hand of welcome toward it.

“Apres vous, monsieur!” said he.

The A.C.B. officer entered, his vigorous, compact figure alive with energy, intelligence.  The Master followed, slid the door shut and motioned to a chair beside the desk.  This chair, of metal, was itself placed upon a metal plate.  The plate was new.  At our last sight of the cabin, it had not been there.

Taking off goggles and gauntlets, and throwing open his sheepskin jacket, the Frenchman sat down.  The Master also plate was new.  At our last sight of the cabin, it had not been there.

Taking off goggles and gauntlets, and throwing open his sheepskin jacket, the Frenchman sat down.  The Master also sat down at the desk.  A brief silence, more pregnant than any speech, followed.  Each man narrowly appraised the other.  Then said the newcomer, still in that admirable French of his: 

“You understand, of course, n’est-ce pas? that it is useless to offer any resistance to the authority of the A.C.B.”

“May I take the liberty of inquiring what your credentials may be, and with whom I have the great pleasure of speaking?” returned the Master.  His eyes, mirroring admiration, peered with some curiosity at the dark, lean face of the Frenchman.

“I,” answered the other, “am Lieutenant Andre Leclair, formerly of the French flying forces, now a commander in the International Air Police.”

“Leclair?” demanded the Master quickly, his face lighting with a glad surprise.  “Leclair, of the Mesopotamian campaign?  Leclair, the world-famous ace?”

“Leclair, nothing else.  I deprecate the adjectives.”

The Master’s hand went out.  The other took it.  For a moment their grip held, there under the bright white illumination of the cabin—­for, though daylight had begun fingering round the drawn curtains, the glow-lamps still were burning.

The hand-clasp broke.  Leclair began: 

“As for you, monsieur, I already know you, of course.  You are—­”

The Master raised a palm of protest.

“Who I am does not matter,” said he.  “I am not a man, but an idea.  My personality does not count.  All that counts is the program, the plan I stand for.

“Many here do not even know my name.  No man speaks it.  I am quite anonymous; quite so.  Therefore I pray you, keep silent on that matter.  What, after all, is the significance of a name?  You are an ace, an officer.  So am I.”

“True, very true.  Therefore I more keenly regret the fact that I must place you under arrest, and that charges of piracy in the high air must be lodged against you.”

“Thank you for the regret, indeed,” answered the Master dryly.  Save for the fact that this strange man never laughed and seldom smiled, one would have thought the odd twinkle in his eye prefaced merriment.  “Well, what now?”