He said to the indifferent bartender who had just served him: 

“’F you knew what I know ’bout Germany, you’d be won’ful man!  I’m won’ful man.  I know something!  Going tell, too.  Going see ’thorities this afternoon.  Going tell ’em great secret!...  Grea’ milt’ry secret!  Tell ’em all ‘bout it!  Grea’ secresh!  Nobody knows grea’-sekresh ’cep m’self!  Whaddya thinka that?  Gimme l’il Hollanschnapps n’water onna side!”

Hours later he was, apparently, no drunker—­as though he could not manage to get beyond a certain stage of intoxication, no matter how recklessly he drank.

“‘Nother Hollenschnapps,” he said hazily.  “Goin’ see ’thorities ‘bout grea’ sekresh!  Tell ’em all ’bout it.  Anybody try stop me, knockem down.  Thassa way....  N-n-nockem out!—­stan’ no nonsense!  Ge’ me?”

Later he sauntered off on slightly unsteady legs to promenade himself in the lobby and Peacock Alley.

Three men left the barroom when he left.  They continued to keep him in view.

Although he became no drunker, he grew politer after every drink—­also whiter in the face—­and the bluish, bruised look deepened under his eyes.

But he was a Chesterfield in manners; he did not stare at any of the lively young persons in Peacock Alley, who seemed inclined to look pleasantly at him; he made room for them to pass, hat in hand.

Several times he went to the telephone desk and courteously requested various numbers; and always one of the three men who had been keeping him in view stepped into the adjoining booth, but did not use the instrument.

Several times he strolled through the crowded lobby to the desk and inquired whether there were any messages or visitors for Mr. Kay McKay; and the quiet, penetrating glances of the clerks on duty immediately discovered his state of intoxication but nothing else, except his extreme politeness and the tense whiteness of his face.

Two of the three men who were keeping him in view tried, at various moments, to scrape acquaintance with him in the lobby, and at the bar; and without any success.

The last man, who had again stepped into an adjoining booth while McKay was telephoning, succeeded, by inquiring for McKay at the desk and waiting there while he was being paged.

The card on which this third man of the trio had written bore the name Stanley Brown; and when McKay hailed the page and perused the written name of his visitor he walked carefully back to the lobby—­not too fast, because he seemed to realise that his legs, at that time, would not take kindly to speed.

In the lobby the third man approached him: 

“Mr. McKay?”

“Mr. Brown?”

“A.  I. O. agent,” said Brown in a low voice.  “You telephoned to Major Biddle, I believe.”

McKay inspected him with profound gravity: 

“How do,” he said.  “Ve’ gla’, m’sure.  Ve’ kind ’f’you come way up here see me.  But I gotta see Major Biddle.”