“I understand.  Major Biddle has asked me to meet you and bring you to him.”

“Oh.  Ve’ kind, ‘m’sure.  Gotta see Major.  Confidential.  Can’ tell anybody ’cep Major.”

“The Major will meet us at the Pizza, this evening,” explained Brown.  “Meanwhile, if you will do me the honour of dining with me—­”

“Ve’ kind.  Pleasure, ’m’sure.  Have li’l drink, Mr. Brown?”

“Not here,” murmured Brown.  “I’m not in uniform, but I’m known.”

“Quite so.  Unnerstan’ perfec’ly.  Won’do.  No.”

“Had you thought of dressing for dinner?” inquired Mr. Brown carelessly.

McKay nodded, went over to the desk and got his key.  But when he returned to Brown he only laughed and shoved the key into his pocket.

“Forgot,” he explained.  “Just came over.  Haven’t any clothes.  Got these in Christiania.  Ellis Island style.  ’S’all I’ve got.  Good overcoat though.”  He fumbled at his fur coat as he stood there, slightly swaying.

“We’ll get a drink where I’m not known,” said Brown.  “I’ll find a taxi.”

“Ve’ kind,” murmured McKay, following him unsteadily to the swinging doors that opened on Long Acre, now so dimly lighted that it was scarcely recognisable.

An icy blast greeted them from the darkness, refreshing McKay for a moment; but in the freezing taxi he sank back as though weary, pulling his beaver coat around him and closing his battered eyes.

“Had a hard time,” he muttered.  “Feel done in. ...  Prisoner. .. .  Gottaway. . . .  Three months making Dutch border....  Hell.  Tell Major all ’bout it.  Great secret.”

“What secret is that?” asked Brown, peering at him intently through the dim light, where he swayed in the corner with every jolt of the taxi.

“Sorry, m’dear fellow.  Mussn’ ask me that.  Gotta tell Major n’no one else.”

“But I am the Major’s confidential—­”

“Sorry.  You’ll ’scuse me, ’m’sure.  Can’t talk Misser Brow!—­’gret ’ceedingly ’cessity reticence.  Unnerstan’?”

The taxi stopped before a vaguely lighted saloon on Fifty-ninth Street east of Fifth Avenue.  McKay opened his eyes, looked around him in the bitter darkness, stumbled out into the snow on Brown’s arm.

“A quiet, cosy little cafe,” said Brown, “where I don’t mind joining you in something hot before dinner.”

“Thasso?  Fine!  Hot Scotch we’ good ’n’cold day.  We’ll havva l’il drink keep us warm ’n’snug.”

A few respectable-looking men were drinking beer in the cafe as they entered a little room beyond, where a waiter came to them and took Brown’s orders.

Hours later McKay seemed to be no more intoxicated than he had been; no more loquacious or indiscreet.  He had added nothing to what he had already disclosed, boasted no more volubly about the “great secret,” as he called it.

Now and then he recollected himself and inquired for the “Major,” but a drink always sidetracked him.