Even a copper bowl of khat, the "flower of paradise," was awaiting him.
The Master sat down, chewed a few leaves and indulged in a little time of what the Arabs call _kayf_, or complete relaxation and inner contemplation--a restful trick he had learned many years ago on the coast of Yemen.

The ticking of the aluminum-cased chronometer, now marking a little past 2 a.m., soothed him, as did the droning hum of the propellers, the piping whistle of the ship-made hurricane round the fuselage, the cradling swing and rock of the air-liner hurling herself almost due east.
After some quarter-hour of absolute rest, he rang for his Arab orderly.

Rrisa appeared at once.

Already he had got himself into his military uniform, the one he had worn at Gallipoli when the Master had saved his life.

As he stood there in the doorway, he swung his left foot out and back, with clicking heels, and made a smart salute.
"What does _M'alme_ desire ?" asked he, in Arabic.
"I desire to know thy opinion of all this, Rrisa.