His master turned toward the western windows.

There the white blankness of the map of Arabia seemed mocking him.

The Master's eyes grew hard; he raised his fist against the map, and smote it hard.

Then once more he fell to pacing; and as he walked that weary space, up and down, he muttered to himself with words we cannot understand.
After a certain time, Rrisa came silently back, sliding into the soft dusk of that room almost like a wraith.

He bore a silver tray with a hook-nosed coffee-pot of chased metal.