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.  And beyond Paris lies Constantinople; and beyond that, Arabia—­the East!  Men are going out that way, tonight!  And I—­stick here like an old, done relic, cooped in Niss’rosh—­imprisoned in this steel and glass cage of my own making!”

Suddenly he wheeled, flung himself into the big chair by the table and dragged the faun’s head over to him.  He pressed a button at the base of it, waited a moment and as the question came, “Number, please?” spoke the desired number into the cupped hand and ear of the bronze.  Then, as he waited again, with the singular telephone in hand, he growled savagely: 

“By Allah!  This sort of thing’s not going to go on any longer!  Not if I die stopping it!”

A familiar voice, issuing from the lips of the faun—­a voice made natural and audible as the living human tones, by means of a delicate microphone attachment inside the bronze head—­tautened his nerves.

“Hello, hello!” called he.  “That you, Bohannan?”

“Yes,” sounded the answer.  “Of course I know who you are.  There’s only one voice like yours in New York.  Where are you?”

“In prison.”

“No!  Prison?  For the Lord’s sake!”

“No; for conventionality’s sake.  Not legally, you understand.  Not even an adventure as exciting as that has happened to me.  But constructively in jail. De facto, as it were.  It’s all the same thing.”

“Up there in that observatory thing of yours, are you?” asked Bohannan.

“Yes; and I want to see you.”

“When?”

“At once!  As soon as you can get over here in a taxi, from that incredibly stupid club of yours.  You can get to Niss’rosh even though it’s after seven.  Take the regular elevator to the forty-first floor, and I’ll have Rrisa meet you and bring you up here in the special.

“That’s a concession, isn’t it?  The sealed gates that no one else ever passes, at night, are opened to you.  It’s very important.  Be here in fifteen minutes you say?  First-rate!  Don’t fail me.  Good-bye!”

He was smiling a little now as he pressed the button again and rang off.  He put the faun’s head back on the table, got up and stretched his vigorous arms.

“By Allah!” he exclaimed, new notes in his voice.  “What if—­what if it could be, after all?”

He turned to the wall, laid his hand on an ivory plate flush with the surface and pressed slightly.  In silent unison, heavy gold-embroidered draperies slid across every window.  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.